the collision of two oceans.
A migration of bodies.
Every mark on you
is a constellation to me,
a celestial glow near fingertips
that can turn me into vapor
When your heat twines around me.
A contrast of the smooth
gliding along the grain of my cheek,
if I get close enough,
I may feel the thunder
trembling behind your eyes.
I may see the same lightning
that torches through my cells,
through the dark lulls before we met,
the echoes of who skimmed the surface
before you closing yourself to cold traces.
Flesh to flesh,
the collision unfolds us.
The migration of your breath
into me becomes a storm,
fingertips and raw lips mapping,
knowing you deeper than anyone else.
A contrast of the pliable and intractable
seamlessly flow together now.
If I get close enough,
I may see the concentrated fire
brimming behind your eyes,
a mirrored image of torches
ignited when bodies migrate.
When your heat twines around me.
