I want to be where your breath forgets itself,
where the quiet between your words darkens with wanting,
where your skin, a field at dusk, grows fevered under my mouth.
There, in the hallowed shallows of your body,
I would linger—
where the bones narrow, 
where the warmth pools,
where the low gasp rises like a bird startled from the thicket.

Your thighs are a threshold I cross on hands and knees;
your belly, a vulnerability lit by the trembling of unseen stars.
How the small of your back calls to my hands,
how the scent of you climbs the long ladder of my hunger.

And with a probe of my tongue,
you open like earth after rain,
soft and swollen, desperate for the weight of touch,
and I fall further into you, mouth first,
finding the slick, hidden places that shudder when I breathe against them.

I taste the salt, the wildness, 
the slow weeping of your body, sweet and brutal,
your wetness slicking my chin, coating my mouth with your need,
and I am drunk on it,
staggering under the unbridled sanctity of how you open wider, 
take more, demand more.

You pull me in,
clawing at the sheets, at my hair, my arms,
dragging me deeper into that wet ache I yearn for,
your hips grinding against my face,
a slow drowning in the heat between your thighs.

We are no longer separate,
but a single tide, cresting and falling,
a flame that thinks itself righteous.

But it is not enough—
never enough,
so I haul you up, raw and shaking,
drag your slickness up my cock,
and slam myself into you so deep, so hard,
your whole body jerks forward, helpless, undone.

You scream then, half pain, half gratitude,
as I fuck you—slow at first, like rapture unraveling your breath,
then faster, primal,
pounding you into the bed, into the earth, 
into the gods themselves if they dare to watch.

There is no world here, now,
only our mindless bodies,
only the smell of sweat and sex hanging in the air like incense,
the endless wet slap of flesh as you split yourself wider around me,
your body begging without shame for more, 
for harder, for everything.

I come inside you with a broken sound,
with my hands fisting in your hair,
my mouth dragging desperate kisses across your open throat,
and you shudder, trembling,
breaking against me, dragging the stars down.

Your thighs quiver, your cunt clenching, desperate, 
pulling me, grinding, riding, cumming—
a hot, wet cry ripping from your throat like the tearing of silk.

Then as your whimpers slow against my neck,
your thigh thrown heavy over mine,
our bodies bruised, wrenched together—I feel it.

I am not a man, nor a name, but the simplest of things:
lips breathing thanks against your shoulder,
thoughts sharpened to a single point,
a fierce, feared tenderness blooming in my chest.

And in this quiet knowing, 
it is not just orgasm, it is not just release— 
it is obliteration, it is death,
it is the only fucking thing that has ever made sense.