Not the sigh of skin against skin, nor its echo, 
not the soft bloom of heat beneath your touch. 
Not the wine’s red silk upon the tongue, 
nor the low murmur of your voice in the dark. 

We are not the spark that ignites desire, 
but the smoke that lingers after. 
We are not the flame that consumes, 
only the ember that whispers of its heat. 

What do we hold, if not the ache of longing, 
or the velvet press of lips undone? 
The curve of your body, the hum of your breath, 
the shadows that coil where light cannot tread. 

There is no escape from this hunger, 
no end to the ache it breeds. 
We reach into the darkness, desperate and bare, 
and find not solace, but the fire, 
endlessly burning through the void. 

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest 

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Posted for MTB: Via Negativa @dVerse Poets Pub