We press until the air between us forgets how to exist—
skin to skin, a fever that mistakes itself for mercy.
Your mouth opens against mine and I pour myself in,
drinking the small sounds you make when language fails.
When I move inside you the world narrows to heat and pulse,
to the slick argument of bodies trying to agree on one name.
Hips lock. Breath stutters. The old rhythm takes us both—
that ancient, wordless grammar of thrust and surrender.
Even then the hunger does not sleep.
I reach past skin for the quiet chamber behind your ribs,
wanting to live where your truest self keeps its light.
I want your heartbeat to become the only drum I answer to,
your breath the only weather my lungs consent to know.
I want the lie of separate bodies to dissolve
until there is no longer a you that ends and a me that begins.
I want to be the thought that moves behind your eyes
when you come apart beneath me.
Fucking is the closest mercy we are given,
this beautiful violence of closeness that still leaves us
two separate animals wearing each other like borrowed skin.
Even when you cry out and I answer in the same broken tongue,
even when sweat seals us and your heartbeat knocks against my own,
I am still reaching through the cage of bone,
still whispering into the dark between your breaths:
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