15h
. (or: how I taught him to ruin me properly) .
His mouth was a chalice filled with thunder—
I drank from it like a man who’s forgotten
how to refuse ceremony.
He said my name like it was a title he meant to inherit.
Not whispered. Not begged.
Claimed.
I took him the way ruins take ivy—
slowly, wholly, letting him crawl through my cracks
and make green what should have stayed dead.
He undressed like it was a coup:
first the belt, then the silence,
then the smirk that knew it had already won.
I touched him like I’d memorized him in a past life
and forgot I was the one meant to teach.
My hands shook.
He steadied them with his teeth.
Skin against skin,
I forgot which of us was ancient.
His body: a question I answered with every bruise.
Mine: a confession disguised as architecture.
I marked him with softness.
He returned it with hunger.
“Slower,” I breathed.
“Why?” he replied.
And there was no answer
that didn't sound like surrender.
We moved like two wolves trying not to pray.
Every gasp a liturgy.
Every ****** a reformation.
I let him trace my scars like roads on a forgotten map.
He said, “You’ve been here before.”
I said, “And I never left.”
Later, he wore my shirt.
Not out of affection—
but to study the shape of power
from the inside.
His mouth was a chalice filled with thunder—
I drank from it like a man who’s forgotten
how to refuse ceremony.
He said my name like it was a title he meant to inherit.
Not whispered. Not begged.
Claimed.
I took him the way ruins take ivy—
slowly, wholly, letting him crawl through my cracks
and make green what should have stayed dead.
He undressed like it was a coup:
first the belt, then the silence,
then the smirk that knew it had already won.
I touched him like I’d memorized him in a past life
and forgot I was the one meant to teach.
My hands shook.
He steadied them with his teeth.
Skin against skin,
I forgot which of us was ancient.
His body: a question I answered with every bruise.
Mine: a confession disguised as architecture.
I marked him with softness.
He returned it with hunger.
“Slower,” I breathed.
“Why?” he replied.
And there was no answer
that didn't sound like surrender.
We moved like two wolves trying not to pray.
Every gasp a liturgy.
Every ****** a reformation.
I let him trace my scars like roads on a forgotten map.
He said, “You’ve been here before.”
I said, “And I never left.”
Later, he wore my shirt.
Not out of affection—
but to study the shape of power
from the inside.
In Part II, in the myth of Chronogamy tilts into its first collapse—intimacy as transformation, touch as both worship and conquest. What begins as desire becomes ceremony. This is the consummation not of love alone, but of power—the moment when the older lover, believing himself the initiator, unknowingly opens the gates to his own undoing.
Artistically, this section leans into the body as symbol, where every movement echoes cosmic tension: Saturn taking Jupiter, not as dominator, but as vessel. The sensuality is deliberate, dangerous, and layered with premonition.
This isn’t romance. It’s ritual dressed in skin, where hunger wears the face of devotion—and the inheritance of identity begins, not with mimicry, but with moaning.
The Chronogamy Collection:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136301/chronogamy/
Artistically, this section leans into the body as symbol, where every movement echoes cosmic tension: Saturn taking Jupiter, not as dominator, but as vessel. The sensuality is deliberate, dangerous, and layered with premonition.
This isn’t romance. It’s ritual dressed in skin, where hunger wears the face of devotion—and the inheritance of identity begins, not with mimicry, but with moaning.
The Chronogamy Collection:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136301/chronogamy/
