This is it:
it’s the slow-fast conversion of my brain matrices in scaffold supporting
the connection between “good” and the scent of your sweat
the swift relay from my skin through my mind back to nerves
ending in your arms; the parts of me you colour rose
it’s the speed variation in the pump of your hips; bone connects bone
shock connects shock, spark connects spark, connects and cascades
the viscous strokes of my hands against your back as you, I
it’s sighing, strikingly loud
it’s enveloping the sound of you

stick and stuck, staring out loud, divine
measures taken to absorb the churning warmth of you
in and out: breathing and stroke
the wire compilation of your hair beneath my fingers
it’s
glazing your gaze until you’ve started falling forward to
capture my sighs/breaths/moans/cries inside your own
vehicle; it’s slow seconds scraping my thoughts while you crawl
the strong strokes you press into my memory
the cusses that slither slickly out my mouth to meet your ears, relay to your
nerves
it’s the excess breath I waste on passing my messages on to you
the feedback loop, in and out
the rhythmic species we become
the invisible lines we draw, remaining afterward for too little time
making love to the sight of you, the sounds of the stereo background
loosening your tension, uncoiling your starched landscapes
the magic of being ethereal in a concrete room