Your whispered invocation reaches me,
stirring the air like a spell older than language,
something the night remembers even if we do not.
Before your touch nears my skin,
I feel the pull of you —
a tremor, a gathering storm,
as if the world has tilted us
irrevocably toward each other.
You lower yourself with a reverence
that is not submission
but the fierce, trembling courage
of offering your whole self.
Your fingers move like a forgotten scripture,
tracing lines I’ve never learned
yet feel written in my bones,
each stroke awakening something ancient
and unbearably alive.
The world collapses to the hush between us,
your longing rising like heat from the earth,
my own answering with a force
that feels carved into fate.
I am undone by the devotion in your gaze —
by the way you reach for me
as if you recognized me as my true self,
as if we were living out a myth written in our blood.
If this is prayer, let it be breathless,
a communion spoken in nearness,
a vow sealed in the quiet press of bodies
that understand without words.
Let my flesh be the altar you choose,
the place where hunger turns to wonder,
where your desire rises to meet mine
like two flames leaning together,
finding the shape of their shared fire
in the dark that holds us close.