Hearts race as skin melts with skin.
Fingers slow dance
across heaving backs and chests,
drawing pictures on hips and necks.
I feel your fingertips and breath,
all over me,
tight against.

My words are butterflies in a meadow.
You walk through them and they scatter and float around you,
twisting and dancing in your footsteps,
riding on your breath,
and I am left chasing them.
Wordless.
But not empty handed.

My hands full of rhythm.
Like the fall and rise of your chest.
The steady inhale, exhale I listen to.
My hands dancing in the shine of your eyes.

These lines like those elusive butteflies
reflected in that shine.
So I wait for them to glide near.
Patient.
And when they alight upon my hands,
I let my fingertips breathe them in,
and soak who I am.

And it is then that I feel their raw emotion.
Burning without a sting.
Instead, calm and reassuring.

In an instant they're gone
in a quiet breath of wind.
But their essence lingers
in the life of this poem.

I can write these lines without
ever righting wrongs the same way
I write notes without writing songs.
I colored pictures, but I only used black and white without
seeing the beauty of the gray
between the lines.
And there's a certain majesty that is only caught
under moonlight, but that is nothing compared to the
photograph in your eyes.
It's the way my heart races without having a beat,
or the way I never seem to dream when I sleep.
Your name catches on every inhale I breathe,
your essence a place I never want to leave.
It's writing a love poem without
feeling that rhyme,
it's knowing you don't burn the same color
every time.
Bathe in the ashes from past poems,
believe that every word is your own.