beauty of now

M.R.

18+

I do not deserve you –
not as you are
in the pale hush of morning,
your body sprawled with effortless grace,
hips tilted in quiet arrogance,
skin bronzed
by the first golden sigh of light.

I reach for you,
fingers grazing the line of your cheek,
then slipping lower –
down the slope of your throat,
over the sharp edge of your collarbone,
to the hollow where your pulse flutters
like a bird eager for flight.

You stir beneath my touch,
not waking,
but offering,
a quiet tension blooming low
between your thighs –
your body speaking a language
your mouth dares not form.

I am nothing but a breath,
a trembling
caught on your lashes,
a need
aching beneath your skin.

Your body –
so warm,
so bare beneath the sheets,
all sharp angles and hidden heat –
holds me captive in hunger.

The gold of your tousled hair,
like a ray of dawn
fallen across the pillow –
I bury my face in it,
press my lips
to the curve of your neck,
breathing in the scent
where sleep still lingers.

Let me taste you –
the flat of your chest,
the hollow below,
the ridge of your hipbone
distinct and hard beneath my mouth.
Let me kiss
where the sun so rarely touches,
where your warmth collects,
salt-sweet, commanding,
and wholly mine.

Your thighs shift,
your breath hitches,
your mouth parts in sleep –
and I lose myself there,
in the quiet gasp,
in the velvet heat,
in the ache of what we are.

You moan –
soft, low,
half a dream, half surrender –
and still I go deeper,
greedy for every sound,
every tremor you give.

Let the world say what it will.
Let silence answer silence.
I would still choose this –
this fever,
this worship,
this shameless devotion
wrapped in your skin and mine.

Let me be time itself –
not morning, not night,
but the hour between,
when nothing exists
but breath
and want
and the unbearable beauty
of now.