Whenever you're gone,
the ache is a phantom limb,
shivering with tense need
in this perfumed dusk.

We are far past conversation now,
what we have to say is bound
in the language of touch,
lips awakening true speech
as you finally take me.

Some ghost hungers us,
burns in the deep dark night,
and whatever happens now,
do not let go of me.

Your moves mean more
when we meet here,
the subtle hinges of bones,
the hallows and shadows
that your graceful walk
puncture into the moon.

All acts between us tremble
with their own unique intimacy,
whether you devour with perfect timing
or I'm calming a storm from miles away.

There's a closeness in such fragile ties,
in colliding entities that light up space
together with brilliant strobing trails,
raw glows akin to the violent
luminescence collapsing stars burst with.

Whenever you're gone,
the ache is a phantom limb,
unfinished sentences waiting
for your beautiful cadence
in this perfumed dusk.

You and I are past conversation, though,
what we long to communicate the most
is bound in the language of touch,
fingertips writing letters as you take me.

Some ghost hungers in us,
burns in the deep dark night,
and whatever we cry out,
do not let go of me.

Your movements mean more
when we learn the dance here,
the heated surge in our blood,
the embers and shadows
that our flurry will come to
puncture into the moonlight.

All acts between us shiver
with their own special intimacy,
whether I consume you upon sight
or you soothe me from miles away.

There's a closeness in these ties
that I've come to jealously guard,
this slow collison of entities lighting up
together with brilliant, dangerous trails,
raw afterglows akin to rainbows
calm after the luminescent burst.

Whenever your gone,
the ache is a phantom limb,
every flash of true need
through the deep dark night.

Whatever burns in us now,
do not let go of me.