When We Spoon Revision
Your back, a velvet crescent,
draws my chest like gravity.
I map the slope of you slowly,
each breath a question my hands almost ask.
Flesh hums between folds of cotton,
heat slipping into heat —
a kind of friction language forgets,
where fingertips write what mouths resist.
You arch, slightly —
a sigh or a signal,
and my pulse answers before I do.
This hush is not silence —
it’s a storm paused,
a fuse lit beneath restraint.
Even the moon blushes,
half-hidden behind clouds,
as my thigh cups yours
and the bed tilts toward temptation.
We are a poem unfinished,
lines unwritten but implied,
rhyming in rhythm,
spooned in syntax,
where meaning dares the margin.
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