LunaTtorres

The night breathes slowly, as if it sensed your steps drawing near. The gloom becomes an accomplice, and my skin anticipates your presence as the earth awaits the rain. Your nearness stirs the air; your voice, low and close, melts into my thoughts, blending with the rhythm that pulls me toward you. Here, there are no clocks—only the shared pulse, the quiet music of our breathing, and that suspended instant when temptation stops being a promise and becomes truth.

The wine in your glass trembles when you look at me like that—as if my lips were a secret and you, the perfect confidant. We talk about anything, we laugh at everything, yet under the surface another language begins to form. You take a sip, the red of the wine echoing the warmth of your mouth, and the distance between us slowly dissolves, until the air feels too thin for words

You approach, and the air shifts. It is not perfume—it is the warmth that surrounds you, the trace that remains in the air long after you’re gone. Your hand brushes mine by chance, and the world grows smaller, reduced to that instant of recognition. The conversation continues, but I only hear the quiet tremor of your voice, the sound that undoes every knot within me. When you leave, the air still burns softly, and I find myself seeking you in each shadow, in every corner of my thought.

Our eyes play a silent game, moving invisible pieces that draw us closer without escape. Your laughter breaks my defenses, your nearness feels like a whisper upon the edge of touch. There is no kiss yet, only that rising warmth, that pulse between heartbeats, that urgency that turns the world to background noise. And when, finally, your lips find mine, it is not a kiss—it is the final seal of a pact written from the first glance.

The sun has gone, but your shadow lingers, traced upon me like an invisible memory. I recall the way your presence mapped itself across my thoughts, how your gaze left quiet sparks beneath my skin. I close my eyes and return there—not through noise, but through the burning silence you left between my ribs. In the mirror I do not see myself, but the echo of your eyes, that line that reminds me I was yours—and will be again.