Sometimes I want it to hurt.

Something dark glimmered in your eyes
with moonlight washing over warm skin still
glistening from early fragrant rainfall,
the sheen of a passed summer storm,
tremulous hands began to reach out
as if touching for the very first time.

I could barely read you back then 
but the signs were alive all around me,
the midnight air an invisible sweet mist
that almost seemed to hum with your need,
with the most natural flowering before 
suddenly being pulled so close and knowing
the feel of a heart fluttering just like mine.

And as you open to wrap around me,
it can look so equally sacred
and as violence done upon the body,
the visceral initial thrust
of a being entering another,
every animalistic motion in between
signalling such raw desire being granted.

Sometimes I need it to hurt
to make me remember everything.

Something dark glimmered that night
and when you pull away after
it's like the sudden stop of rainfall,
a muted storm too quiet in this aftermath 
where we hold this echo tightly
of hearts frantically thrumming together,
and like the rain you can be so tender,
touching places too vulnerable
to be kept safe by our skins.

I could barely read you back then
but knew what it was like
to be loved for the very first time.

It can look so equally sacred
and as violence done upon the body,
to know that you still belong,
to keep a heart but never cage it.

But sometimes I need it to hurt
to make me remember everything.