you called me your honeybun (sweet thing, sugar lips, mine).
my thighs still cry out your name.
on the rooftop of your mouth,
my breath folded itself.
between us, only heat.
your fingers: fruitflies in my
garden
orchard
.
i opened, and opened, and opened—
until i forgot the word for "no."
last night i dreamt of your hand on my forehead, searching.
when you leave, everything curves
like a bowstring held at rest.
you are the arrow (sharp, true, aimed at my heart), and i am
the ache of direction.
last night i dreamt of your hand on my
forehead,
and it left a gasp
etched in steam.
press your mouth
against the pulse in my throat
and taste the word that forms before it's spoken.
sometimes love is a
mark
bruise
.
sometimes it's the shadow of teeth (white, sharp, yours)
still smiling.
sometimes it's you,
and me,
and silence
that hums.
your hips wrote love letters against mine.
when i trembled, it was not
cold
fear
.
you said,
"i'll fill you until you forget the shape of emptiness, longing, hunger."
and you did.
heat
rising
from
skin
to
skin
coffee steam
curls between our fingers,
warm like the space
where you pressed (kissed, touched, claimed)
your forehead to mine.
newspaper rustle
i'll read you headlines
in a voice thick with
morning
sleep
,
and it'll be
a declaration of here-ness.
sunlight
catches the curve
of your shoulder blade—
i map it with my eyes
like territory.
i'll make soup for you while you sleep.
kiss your eyelids like they were spells.
In the kitchen, I'll watch you slice tomatoes with the concentration of a surgeon. The knife moves through flesh with precision, and I think of how your hands know exactly where to touch me. The seeds spill onto the cutting board like small secrets. You'll look up and catch me staring. "What?" you'll ask, but you'd be smiling. I won't tell you that I'm memorizing this: the way morning light makes a halo of your messy hair, how your tongue darts out when you're focused, the sound of the knife against wood—percussion for our ordinary symphony.
when you sleep beside me,
your breath becomes my metronome.
i count the spaces between
inhale and exhale,
learn the rhythm of your dreaming.
i want to trace
back your want—
find where it lives
in the hollow of your throat,
the curve of your palm,
the way you say my name
like it's the only word
that matters.
You reach for apples and I fall in love again. Not with the gesture, but with the way you test each one for firmness, the serious consideration you give to produce. This is how you love everything—with attention, with care. In the cereal aisle, you ask if I prefer honey nut or plain cheerios, and I realize this is what forever looks like: small decisions made together, the mundane transformed into sacrament by proximity to you.
in the aftermath of our bodies
speaking their ancient language,
you trace letters on my back.
i-l-o-v-e-y-o-u
each letter a grand thing,
rebuilding me
from the inside out.
We discover that two bodies at rest tend to stay at rest, especially when those bodies are us on a Saturday morning, tangled in sheets that smell like sleep and each other. I'm explaining quantum entanglement while your fingers play with my hair, and I think we've already proven the theory—how we affect each other across any distance, how touching you changes the fundamental nature of my particles.
exhibit a:
the way you laugh
at your own jokes
before you tell them
exhibit b:
your hand finding mine
in every scenario,
automatic as breathing
exhibit c:
how i'll leave
love notes
in your pockets
exhibit d:
the sound you make
when you stretch
in the morning
one pair of hands that know
my spine. every part.
seven different ways
you say my name
depending on the hour.
infinite seconds
of your breath against my ear
in the dark.
one body learning
to be home
for another body.
You'll make tea while I watch frost form patterns on the window. The kettle's whistle will cut. Your feet will be bare on the cold kitchen tiles, and I'll want to warm them between my palms. Instead, I'll memorize this: how you move through domestic rituals with the grace of someone who has found their place in the world. The steam from our cups will mingle in the space between us. Temporary as breath, lasting as love.
i dream of your mouth
on parts of me
that have no names,
wake up swollen
with wanting.
you touch my wrist
while passing me coffee
and i combust
quietly,
a matchstick
struck against
the roughness
of ordinary love.
I'll find your t-shirt in the washing machine, soft cotton that still holds the shape of your shoulders. I'll press it to my face and breathe in the last traces of your skin. This is intimacy too: knowing which socks are yours in the tangle of our shared life, how you fold fitted sheets into imperfect squares, the way you separate lights from darks with the seriousness of someone who has learned that care lives in the smallest details.
before language,
before thought,
my skin recognizes
the heat of your approach.
muscle memory:
how to arch toward you,
how to open like a flower
that has been waiting
all winter for spring.
that paper water cup,
still warm where your lips touched the rim.
my book,
abandoned mid-sentence
when you walked into the room.
the indent in our pile of clothes
where your head rested.
sunlight on the unmade bed,
evidence of our bodies'
conversation with pleasure.
everything holding
the shape of us,
the memory of heat.
you wake me
without meaning to—
your hand reaching
for me in sleep.
i lie still,
letting your fingers
find the curve
of my hip,
thinking this
is how love works:
even unconscious,
we seek each other.
In photographs, we are always slightly blurred—too much movement, too much life to be contained by a single frame. But in the space between heartbeats, we are perfectly still. Your hand on my cheek, my fingers twisted in your hair, the exact angle of your smile when you look at me like I'm the answer to a question you didn't know you were asking. This is how I want to remember us: not as we are, but as we become when we're together—luminous, uncontainable, whole.
the equation of our bodies:
your hands + my skin = combustion
my mouth - your mouth = emptiness
us × time = infinity
love ÷ distance = constant
every variable leads back
to this simple truth:
you + me = everything
everything - you = impossible
lazy mornings in the future (soon):
your back
when you stretch toward sunlight,
between your shoulder blades
where i rest my forehead,
the way you navigate toward me
even with your eyes closed,
how we create our own weather system
under these sheets—
warm front meeting warm front,
pressure dropping,
everything electric
with the possibility of storm.
voicemail, 2:17 pm
"just calling to hear
you say hello.
don't call back."
text message, 11:43 pm
"thinking about
the way you taste
like salt and surprise."
grocery list
milk, bread, eggs,
the brand of unscented shampoo
that makes your hair smell like home.
dream, recurring
we're dancing
in an empty kitchen
to music only we can hear.
after all the words
have been said,
after all the ways
we've learned to love
and be loved,
what remains is this:
the specific gravity
of your sleep-heavy arm
across my chest,
how morning light
makes a cathedral
of your collarbone,
the way you say "good morning"
like it's the first time
you've ever been glad
to be alive.
what remains
is the quiet revolution
of choosing each other
again,
and again,
and again.
right now, you exist.
right now, i love you.
right now, the world spins
and we spin with it,
two points of light
in an expanding universe
that somehow conspired
to bring us here,
to this moment,
to each other.
right now is enough.
right now is everything.
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