I feel you
slipping
against the edges
of my soul,
slow, certain,
a pulse beneath my ribs.
Moments stretch,
time folds
around the warmth of us,
and I wait
to melt into your gaze,
to taste
the quiet fire
of your being
brushing
against mine.
The world
holds its breath,
and so do I,
in the sacred stillness
where skin remembers
what souls know,
where waiting
becomes a slow, sacred worship,
and living
is the trembling
of our bodies
finally,
finally entwined.
