Somehow I've told you everything,
as we rush through the prelude,
your tongue meets mine,
always hot and invasive,
loving and possessive.

Our bodies tell stories together,
whisper through breaching fingertips,
carry myths in closely exhaled breaths,
the faint echoes in stirred hearths.

Waiting to explode back to ourselves.

Whatever once broke inside
still radiates as you float
among sleep's most quiet streams
in the darkness gathered after ignition.

Somehow I've told you everything
in a language not yet fully understood,
spoken by lips devouring every aching inch,
by flames twined beyond recognition.

Our bodies tell their quiet stories alone
but scream with want when in unison,
carry myths in how our tight embrace
mimics the way your folds clamp around
and possessively grip me from the inside.

Waiting to explode back to ourselves.

Whatever ghosts we brought here
find a crushing silence to slip into,
turbulent oceans calm in our veins,
a vast citadel to confess through.

Somehow we've told each other everything.