AlanaMoore

Your eyes touch my silence, and suddenly the world becomes skin. Nothing exists, except this chill that learns to breathe your name.

Under the light, I hide the shadow, the one that burns gently. Approach quietly. fire knows its destiny.

On my skin, the perfume of secret, on my lips, the promise of vertigo. If you knew everything I say, you'd never sleep peacefully again.

I don’t say anything, I let my gestures speak. Silence has its words, and I know them all.

In my dreams, you have no name, only a warmth, a trace. It's not you that I'm looking for, it's the vertigo that you leave.

Your thoughts hold me tighter than any embrace. Being your idea is enough for me, as long as it is ardent.

I like the moment before the gesture, the breath before the word. This is where desire is born, and it never dies.

Time glides on my skin like an impatient memory. Every minute becomes caress, every second, promise.

I dream half, not to lose you completely. In the dark, your absence tastes like unfinished pleasure.

Under my skin, the night awakens, slow and burning, like a secret that seeks the light. Your thoughts brush me without touching me, and yet I feel their fire, their whisper that glides between my veins. I become silence, breath, waiting — a gentle flame in the dark, bowing to the idea of you. Every second stretches, lengthens, like a desire that refuses to sleep. And if you closed your eyes, maybe you'd hear my heart beating in the same rhythm as your breathing.

Your words glide on my skin like invisible fingers. They draw secret paths, they light up sleeping worlds. I don't say anything — I listen. Your absence has the taste of salt, the scent of an unfinished dream. I close my eyes and I invent you, in the slowness of the evening, where silence becomes promise. I wait for you without waiting for you, as one waits for the rain when the heat becomes desire.

There is a shadow in your gaze that undresses me, without a gesture, without a word, without an end. Every blink of my eyelids holds me in a dizziness, and I lose myself — voluntarily. My breath becomes your light, my skin, your echo. I slip between the seconds like a secret that the night protects. And if tomorrow we are nothing, I will keep on my lips the taste of your silence.

I write to you with the dew of the morning, and a little fire in my mouth. Each word touches, awakens, like a caress that hesitates to be born. Time is bent, suspended, and under the canvas of dawn I feel your imaginary breath, warm, vibrant, fragile. I offer my thoughts to the wind, hoping that it carries them to you, that it lays them on your skin like an invisible kiss.

Slowly, I invent you, as one paints the light on a dream. Your absence is a perfume, your presence, a silent vertigo. I breathe between two memories, where everything is still shaking, where words no longer dare to speak. Each beat of time is a suspended promise, a thrill that seeks its end. And I, I stay there, half-shadow, half-fire, waiting for the world to fall asleep to think of you without remorse.

I touch you in thought, gently, as one touches a dream for fear that it disappears. My skin keeps the memory of your absence, every breath, an incomplete promise. I imagine you in the chiaroscuro, where the shadows become tender, where the light lingers on the curves of silence. My desire does not scream, it waits, it settles, it breathes. And when the night touches me, it's your name that it whispers half.

Between my lips, your memory slips, warm as a word that is not said. It dances, light, against my tongue, like a secret too beautiful to be confessed. I close my eyes — and everything becomes flame. The air itself becomes heavier with you, this nothing that burns, this whole that trembles. I am here, offered to silence, listening to the world fade away to keep only your trace, invisible and real.

The evening stretches on my naked skin, and the wind tells me about you. Every shiver becomes language, every breath, memory. I lose myself in the slow burning of waiting and lack. It is not the flesh that calls, but the soul, wounded with sweetness. I want this quiet vertigo, this abyss without fall, where our shadows merge and forget their name.

I write your breath on my skin with the ink of the night. Every word trembles, breathes, as if it came from you. Your silence lies on my hips, it weighs softly, it burns slowly. I do not move — I let the world fade away, until there is only the trace of an endless desire.