Your hands are cold, a winter that has forgotten how to thaw, yet where you touch me, the blood begins to hum. It is a frantic, starving kind of hunger. You trace the line of my throat with a finger that feels like a memory of a blade, and I arch into it, welcoming the edge of you.They sing no songs of spring, nor do they weave soft melodies under the pale, forgiving moon. Instead, my ravens carve the dawn.
We are a choreography of ghosts in a room that smells of old cedar and extinguished wax. There is no light here, only the suggestion of shape. The slope of a shoulder, the sudden, sharp intake of breath and the way your mouth tastes of salt. I can feel the hollow in your chest, a void that pulls at me, demanding to be filled with the heat of raven my living skin. as your bones have gone to shiver.
You do not breathe, but you lean in, your lips a frozen promise against the pulse of my wrist. I am a living thing, a thrumming wire of nerve and desire, and you are the silence that follows a scream. We collide not as two bodies, but as a collision of eras, the warmth of a heartbeat meeting the stillness of a grave.
I pull you closer, the friction of our skin creating a static that burns, a white-hot electricity that smells of ozone. You wrap your arms around me, and for a moment, the boundary between the living and the lost dissolves. I cannot tell if it is my heart hammering against your ribs or if you are simply echoing the panic of my own blood.
We tangle in sheets that feel like burial shrouds, weaving a knot that neither time nor tide can undo. Your touch is an erasure, wiping away the world outside the door, until there is nothing left but the rhythmic, desperate sound of me trying to bring you back to life, and the terrifying, exquisite feeling of you pulling me under a forgiving moon as your bones have gone to shiver.
