(a dangerous recipe… not meant for the kitchen)
Then you don’t just make love
you compose it.
Like apple roses,
you begin with patience
fingers learning the language of softness,
coaxing firmness into surrender,
warming distance
until it melts into breath.
Nothing is taken.
Everything is invited.
You move slowly
as if time itself has loosened its grip,
as if the moment exists only
for the unfolding.
Each layer…
a whisper laid upon skin,
each curve…
a quiet promise shaped by your hands.
You do not rush beauty.
You build it
petal by trembling petal,
until it opens
because it wants to.
There is sweetness
yes…
but it lingers,
never overwhelms.
A taste that draws closer,
again… and again…
And beneath it
heat.
Not loud, not urgent,
but slow…
circling…
like cinnamon dissolving
on a warm tongue,
felt more than seen,
rising in the breath between two bodies.
And when it reveals itself
not wild,
not claimed
but golden,
softly trembling,
blushing like something sacred
never meant for the world
you don’t seize it.
You hold it.
Carefully…
like a rose just opened
knowing the petals are fragile
because they are alive.
Knowing this moment
is not yours to keep,
only to feel.
And if this is how you love
then it is no longer romance.
It is devotion
slow-burning,
body-listening,
unspoken…
and impossible
to forget.