You don't know what
you do to me.

Your tongue was like warm rain
caressing the earth's unique shape,
I've always been waiting
for such a storm.

Silk threads brush my face
when you lean in,
any quiet space aching
is brought to life.

Your gentle heat becomes a force
exactly when you command it to,
my lips raw with yours
as you edge closer than ever.

The pale arc of a bare hip
shudders with the slightest contact,
and one of us always whispers,
from the dizzying depths of sensations,
to finish what the other has started.

You don't know what
you do to me.

Your hands become an entity
suddenly possessing throbbing want,
a skillful gliding of flesh over flesh,
opposites that edge closer
and yearn for more.

What was once a gentle heat,
some tiny infinite horizon,
yields with thighs coaxed open,
showing what it is to truly burn
as I'm taken by the storms
inside of star-kissed skin.

All things mysterious
are a collective within you,
the constellations that drew us
to this unique living nexus.

The pleasures we hardly have
the eloquence to describe
but will always be possessed by.

All things that remain secret
when galaxies burst unseen
and form anew when our names
ignite in perfect timing.

When we explode in relentless bliss.

You know exactly
what you do to me.