Under Your Skin

I stand before you,
voice barely a heartbeat,
barely a whisper—
“My body remembers your name.”

Your fingertips trace the tremor under my ribs,
each breath a question:
“Do you trust me?”
My answer cracks open on your lips.

We drift closer,
inches of confession,
bodies grazing like early spring air—
soft, tentative, then surging.

I taste you in my sighs,
a covenant sealed between drip and gasp.
Your tongue charts my hidden valleys,
discovering how quickly I melt.

Hands cradle my pulse,
fingers weaving through the truth in my spine.
I arch into your promise,
moans tangled in the hollow of your ear.

We build:
slow as dawn,
heavy as thunder—
every touch a vow,
every gasp a prayer.
I count the seconds until I shatter,
and you follow,
breath and bone undone.

When we collapse—
two confessions collapsing into one—
I taste release on your tongue,
and your release on mine.
A single exhale carries us home.