It begins in the marrow,
a slow, molten pull
that bends the spine,
curves the breath,
turns the body into a question
only another body can answer.
Fingers hover,
a universe suspended in the space
between not yet and now,
the air thick enough to drown in.
It hums there,
a song you taste before it's sung.
The first touch—
not a collision,
but a sigh against the fabric of being.
It ripples,
folding the world into smaller and smaller corners
until only this moment exists.
Your skin becomes scripture,
read by lips that do not know how to pray
but find God all the same.
Every kiss—a confession.
Every gasp—a hymn.
Every shiver—a promise to never forget.
There is no gravity here,
only the pull of desire
and the way it knots your name
into the curve of their spine.
You fall, and they fall,
but it feels like rising,
the sky opening in waves of heat and surrender.
You lose your edges,
your beginning and end,
until their hands hold all of you
without knowing where they start.
The pulse of you both—
a rhythm so ancient, so full,
it makes time jealous.
It is not touch.
It is the universe splitting open,
and finding you both inside,
whole and infinite,
for the very first time.
And when the crescendo comes,
it is not an ending,
but a return—
to the core of creation,
to the point where light first dared
to touch the dark
and found it beautiful.
