Your voice,
it drips like sunlight over my skin-
not burning, just warm,
like a kiss that starts in the heart
and spills outward.
You say my name,
and it’s like fingers brushing the back of my neck,
gentle, like you always are when you mean it.
Every syllable
a promise without pressure,
a tether made of silk and intention.
We talk until the day folds in on itself,
hours dripping slow like honey,
and I want more-
of your thoughts, your hands,
your breath softening the air between us
as we sit close
in the hush of the car,
windows fogged by the gravity
of just being near you.
God, Eliza,
I see us in years we haven’t lived-
your laugh decorating a kitchen,
your feet on my dashboard,
your eyes asking nothing
but still saying everything.
Love is not loud with you,
it’s skin-on-skin in words and time,
in the way your touch exists
even when we’re not touching.
And maybe-
maybe one day I’ll kiss you
like I’ve kissed you a thousand times
in dreams I never wake from.
And it’ll feel like this:
not fireworks,
but a soft ignition.
Not a storm,
but a home.