A pulse beneath skin-raw,
a symphony of friction,
silent notes igniting,
unwritten, but felt.
Fingers trace electric rivers,
veins pulsing to the rhythm of need.

Sweat slicks the edges of memory,
lips unlearn what's been spoken,
our bodies becomes language,
where words are too clumsy to reach.

In the space between breath and release,
something breaks, something blooms,
old wounds, wounds no one touched,
heal in the friction.
Not the kind of healing you can bottle
or bless with holy water
this, the alchemy of skin and surrender,
the way hips speak in tongues
when the body writes its own scripture.

Here, love is less tender,
more molten,
shattering the cold stars
that once burned inside your bones.
This is a healing that doesn't ask permission
it claims, it devours, it demands
the undoing of all shame.

Feel it.
The rhythm is louder than your heartbeat now.