You lay beneath me,
trembling like a prayer no one dares to finish.
Naked not just in flesh—
but in meaning.
In will.
In everything you thought was yours.

I don’t ask.
I descend.

My thighs straddle your breath.
My claws trace your ribs like ancient scripture.
You whisper my name—
but it comes out like a moan cracked open by thunder.

“Take me,” you say.
So I do.

I do not kiss you.
I consume you.

I slide into your chest like a serpent through wet earth,
find your soul curled in the fetal ache of surrender,
and wrap it in my mouth like ripe fruit.

You taste like regret,
like longing,
like prayers made under broken ceilings.
You taste like mine.

And as I feed—
you begin to fade.

Not into death,
but into belonging.

Your eyes roll back,
your limbs convulse,
your heart becomes a drum for my hunger.
Each throb, a beat that writes your name into me.

You do not cry.
You sing.
A long, low hymn made of gasps and flame.

Until there’s nothing left but your moan in my mouth.
Until I rise from your body,
full of your spirit—
and you are inside me, watching through my eyes,
moaning through my breath,
alive in my dark, wet temple of power.

I devoured you, love.
And now—
I am you.
And you are mine.

Forever.