He calls for me.
Enwrapped in friendship and warmth and the linger of powder on lips and he calls for me. He feels the absence of satisfied desire and his voice says my name. His lids are heavy, yes, and his teeth are carving regrets.
But the warmth.
The lightest touch is an endless embrace with a whispering spiral of moonlight. There is a fear of becoming lost in this haze of fulfilled hope and he senses and he touches again. Words flow as vapor over streams at early dawn and our beads of sweat become a god's perfume. My head falls against his shoulder. I have loved him then and still and in the second of the touch that twists into minutes or hours or escapes any cage that Time can create, I love again.

A chemical allows the pupils to widen, but not for vision; 'tis so we see the embers of the other.
Finally, we are aflame.