it does not ask permission
it remembers
the way your shoulder curves like a question
and answers itself in heat

my fingers learn your geography
not to conquer
but to listen to the soft thunder beneath your skin

your breath
is a tide I ride
not to reach shore
but to stay afloat in the salt of you

we are not mirrors
we are magnets
pulling pulse from pulse
until the space between us
forgets it was ever empty

your spine is a hymn
my lips recite
in the language of slow
and again
and again

this is not possession
this is procession
two bodies walking each other home
through the temple of touch