ValeriJoness

Your skin does not know that mine is waiting, that the night is complicit in my silence, and that there is a sigh in every shadow that pronounces your name without voice. Your back, a map that I want to go with the slowness of a contained desire, is a verse that is barely insinuated and the fingertips set fire. Let me be the wind that brings your neck, the echo of a caress yet. I need nothing more than the edge of your breath to lose myself in the promise of your mouth.

There is a tremor that is born in your distance, a soft tide that rises in my chest when your steps touch the border where the air ends and the fire begins. It gives that the imaginary friction is more real than any skin, deeper than any groan. Because when you approach, the whole body becomes an ear, and I hear, inside me, the prelude to a nameless symphony.

Undad with your eyes is not an act, it is a slow, ritualistic ceremony, where each garment is a poem, and each fold, a secret revealed to the skin. There is something sacred in not touching you yet, to let the wait be caress, and that time between us melts like a candle among sighs. You are in front of me, and there are no longer clothes or distance, only the desire that you learn to walk with your eyes closed..

Your lips have not kissed me, and yet I feel them as a promise in the neck, like a touch between the thighs of the air. You speak, and language fades. Your voice does not say, hint. And I am all ears, every skin that listens. Do you know that there are kisses that hurt more than the absence? They are the ones who do not occur. Those who want with their eyes.

We drink slowly, like wine that is not swallowed, but is savoured between tongue and throat. Your laughter wets my mouth, and your fingers, still still, are already walking by my back with the daring of thought. Is it a sin to imagine you like this, so close, so inside, when I haven't even touched your soul?