warmth fluttering through clothes,
through earth and swaying trees
from where you have taken me.
Branches are a dark outline
like crooked wires linked
across the clear evening sky
as a finger gently hushes my lips.
You say to not give this a name
as your hand tightens around,
squeezes my lingering ache,
our pulses finally know one another,
quickening in silent communiqués.
We destroy too much in the naming,
crush too much with human expectation,
I knew this without a single word
as I was enveloped by your heat.
The wind stirred something then,
I could hear us carried in the air,
breathe in flowers and desire
becoming a mingled perfume
from where you suddenly take me.
You become a dark outline,
bare and linked to me,
writhing against the moonlit sky,
bodies collide to discovered beats
as I’m hushed with wine from lips
and starbeams pooled around your eyes.
You say to not give this moment a name,
relentlessly clasping around this ache,
our pulses begin to remember everything,
find home in their silent communiqués.
We obliterate too much in the naming,
scar too much with human expectation.
I knew this without a word spoken
as I began to explode inside of you.
The wind stirred something then,
cooled down our scorching rush,
faded cries flutter through the air,
dark outlines closely embracing
silent communiqués of merged shadows.
From where you have taken me.
