Whispers of flesh

 In the quiet hum of midnight,

Two shadows converge,

A dance older than words,

A rhythm carved in pulse and breath.

Fingers trace the edges of yearning,

Mapping the contours of vulnerability,

A language without letters,

Spoken in sighs and shivers.

The world outside dissolves,

Time bends and folds

Around the heat of proximity,

The tender clash of bodies seeking truth.

Eyes meet like open doors,

Inviting secrets,

The trust of skin pressed to skin,

A covenant beyond promise.

Breath mingles, shallow and deep,

A tide of anticipation rising,

Each touch a question,

Each tremor an answer.

Pleasure blooms like a hidden garden,

Fragrant and secret,

Where every caress is both compass and map,

Leading to the heart’s quiet altar.

Not all passion is fire;

Some is the steady pulse

Of lips tracing love’s ancient script,

The comfort of a hand held in the dark.

In this union, there is both surrender and claim,

A sacred geometry of closeness,

Where two become mirrors of desire,

And the body speaks the soul’s most honest truths.

And when the storm ebbs,

Leaving warmth in its wake,

There is a hum of reverence,

A quiet knowledge that connection matters,

That intimacy is a whisper of eternity,

Carried in the bones,

In the soft ache that lingers,

In the memory of closeness

That defies the ticking clock.

For sex is more than flesh,

It is communion,

A pulse, a promise, a fleeting eternity,

A poem written in hearts and hands.