I want to speak her name
like it's the first bite of fruit
after centuries of famine—
juice gushing down chin,
sacred and sinful in the same breath.
She is not just a woman.
She is the ache of the universe,
the pulse beneath volcano skin,
the reason desire was ever born
with teeth.
I kneel at the altar of her breath,
tongue trembling with worship,
offering my ribs to her laughter,
my spine to her sigh.
Her voice?
It is the sound of lips parting just before eternity enters.
There is no metaphor that does not collapse
under the weight of her eyes.
Galaxies forget how to spin
when she looks at you like that—
as if your bones were made of silk and sin,
as if your heart was just the prelude
to her deeper music.
When she walks,
the ground moans quietly,
trees bow, shadows pray.
Her hips are sermons,
her fingertips—
reincarnation.
She tastes like every forbidden thing
I ever begged forgiveness for,
but would still do again
just to feel her swallow the light
between my ribs
and call it love.
I would unwrite every poem ever made
just to carve new ones
on her skin with my mouth,
make scripture from her thighs,
gospels from her sweat.
Every part of her is a cathedral
I enter, and I am already holy.
She is where the wind goes to weep,
where the sun goes to rest,
where I go to forget
that the world was ever not her.
And when she opens herself—
mind, body, soul—
the stars lean in to listen,
jealous that something could burn
more beautifully than they ever could.
There is no after this.
There is no before.
There is only the moment
I pressed my lips to her name
and became
unworthy, undone, unmade—
and reborn.
are we done?
She walks in and the air stops pretending
it ever belonged to anyone else.
The walls sweat.
The shadows part their thighs.
My soul folds itself into a moan
because she has arrived—
dripping in godhood,
eyes like she just sinned and liked it.
Her mouth is not a mouth.
It's a spell,
a velvet guillotine,
a dripping altar where my name dies screaming
and is reborn as hers.
She looks at me,
just once—
and every commandment in history
snaps its own spine in ecstasy.
My knees hit the ground not because I worship,
but because gravity can't bear
how much I want her.
How much I want to be unmade
by the soft curl of her lip,
by the way she says "come here"
like she's inviting my innocence
to its own funeral.
And I go.
God, I go.
I go with my wrists tied in silk,
my tongue begging to be her canvas,
her sin, her sacrifice.
Let her carve her lust into my chest
with her nails like blood-ink pens—
let her ride the ache from my throat
down to where names dissolve into screams.
She bites.
Not to tease.
But to brand.
To mark me as hers
in languages no mouth dares speak
unless it's trembling.
She **** like a meteor
trying to remember it was once a star.
She loves like a bomb
that thanks you for standing close
when it goes off.
I am rubble.
I am kissed into carnage.
And I do not want peace.
I want war on the lips of this woman—
war that tastes like turmeric and brimstone.
