I want to lay my head
upon your chest
and hear ancestral drums
beating beneath your skin,
calling me home
to your arms once more.
I follow their rhythm
like a man who hasn’t
made peace with not
dying terribly young,
toward a forgotten country
where your breath rises
with the tide
and my loneliness loosens.
There, beneath the hush
of your breathing,
I arrive not as thought
but as hunger.
My hands disappear into
the warm geography of you,
learning the language
of your waist,
the slow scripture
written along your hips.
I rest where your warmth opens,
listening to your body
move like moon pulled water,
into the coastal silence where
your skin becomes sea air,
and I let desire carry me home.