Where Our Mouths

I start with breath held close,

like the moment before a song,

when everything is quiet

but full of trembling possibility.

Your face inches near,

soft focus and warm gravity,

and suddenly my pulse forgets itself,

stumbling, eager, unashamed.

I swear the air thickens

with something delicate

and reckless at the same time,

like silk tangled in a storm,

like longing deciding it won’t wait

for logic or timing or permission.

I feel your presence

before there is touch,

as if my body recognizes you

faster than my thoughts can form.

And then;

a shift, tiny but seismic.

Not anticipation anymore,

but surrender

wrapped in electricity.

That breath we share,

that heartbeat rising up my throat,

it isn’t just want,

it’s remembering what closeness

was designed to feel like.

When our mouths finally meet,

it’s not fireworks,

it’s something quieter,

strangely sacred.

A slow unveiling,

a warmth that doesn’t shout

but sings from the inside out.

I taste forever in the simplest moment,

and somehow, it feels like coming home

without ever leaving.