Hold me before we succumb to this rush,
to this electricity where pressure always
quickens in breathless kneading and friction,
steady your fluttering pulse with mine,
slow this reckless dance down and listen closely.

Voices will untether to speak from everywhere,
from our curves, planes, and pores,
asking if I've discovered you yet,
if I will melt into your flowing rivers
that I feel but do not yet see,
if I'll tell you what I couldn't before.

I cannot call you mythical,
the fabric of a muse can be
too easily torn and knotted
into a stranger of its former self.

I must have flesh and bone,
the tangible taking that
does not consume from afar,
but so close that your touch
is both fire and vapor,
torching my atmosphere before
I can even beg you to.

I want your hands to glide
with pure fluid purpose,
to remind me why even a hint
of your presence stirs a craving
to be sheathed inside of you.

Its the most ancient mark to make,
the only true surrender,
the deepest binding we can know.

Hold me before we succumb to this rush,
to the galaxies swirling in your eyes,
once so distant and still,
ready to unfold in supernovas,
slow this orbit down and listen closely.

Because the darkness between us is fragile,
rich with honey and sound almost suspended,
skin bathed in amber candlelight flickering,
waiting to explode across lonely skies,
dripping horizons and gardens.

Your body is calling out to me,
cells imparting all secret wants,
from the softest murmur to
the most unstoppable frenzy,
to every pause in between
that ripples through the air
to ask me to tell you what
I never could before.

I answer by confessing
that you are not a muse,
but something far more than
a shimmer to fixate on from afar.

You consume until a core encloses,
an ancient ceremony sealed
to contain our explosions.

Answering all that I've never
asked of you before.

Hold me as we descend into ourselves afterwards,
be the gravity leading me back into softened limbs,
burrowed into any hollow calling out to us,
listen closely and I'll tell you the entire story,
tangle into your unfinished chapters.

Because I've never been so intoxicated
with such sudden familiarity,
intimate and nearly motionless,
like embers in the darkest hearth,
the sparks between the storms.

For all the beauty that such bursts
illuminate throughout you,
as much as they weave us together,
they are never meant to last.

But even the shadows left in our wake
are still tinged with light,
framed with glows no other can unmake,
no one can claim the trellis
suspending these sweet fruits.

The darkness between us is fragile,
beautiful as pulses untether and swim
back down to this cooling atmosphere,
as you call out to me and promise
to listen closely when I tell you
everything I could never say before.