Our time together blooms in fevered places
of pulled curtains and close whispers,
a darkened room where our hands mimic
the familiar as we learn to take one another.

We cannot leave evidence in our hearts, though,
of the way this longing will mark us.

I won't question the wine I taste
when your lips race to cover mine,
you won't question how quickly
I make you tremble when my fingers
slide and flutter deep inside you.

Even when we're apart,
you're a secret sewn to my being,
it's your hand seizing me below,
the wet tip of your tongue
flicking against where I throb.

Our fever breaks in the blooming of needs unchained,
of a darker longing I won't judge you for
because your reflection glimmers like mine
beneath the room's familiar haunted glow.

We do not need to mention those spirits, though,
the echoes that mimic our clamoring lust .

I won't question the initials tattooed
upon the skin my lips race to cover,
you won't question the unfolding
of your body and soul
and every conduit in between.

Even when we're apart,
my words are a pact sewn to your being,
it's my mouth singeing your curves,
impaling as you seize and quiver around me.

Our darkness blooms when we're locked together,
piercing a core we cannot reach alone,
we cannot leave evidence in our hearts,
even though this need will never evaporate.

It ceaselessly follows us as we chase
the echoes that mimic our clamoring lust.