She speaks with her hands.
Long, elegant fingers—
pulling
twisting
curling.

Soft and strong—
an artist’s hands
their uses unlimited.

Her hands
clenching
unclenching
she directs our motion.

Her back arches,  
I tighten my grip on her thighs
and breathe in her scent.

She tastes of honey
and sunlight
and something bitter that is so indefinably her
never tire of it.

Her hands fist in the sheets
and I am gone
yielding completely.

She tells me it’s my lips.
She places kisses along my collar bone
trails them down towards my breast
and stares up through her bangs to watch my lips.

She tells me there’s a silence in my smile that contents her.

In this moment,
I understand what it is to be
absorbed and stored
in a place of untouchable beauty.

A moment to return to on a day of lost hope and false truths.

A memory to tease: when the future slips through our grasp.

Parting my flesh,
her fingers etch truths into my skin.
I am lost in the imagery of her words.
A chorus of sweet nonsense passes between us
I breathe it in
allowing it to spur me towards completion.

I feel the harshness of her breath in my ribs
the trembling of her body
as we ride out the waves.

She buries her face in my neck and smiles.

I am content,
wrapped securely
in the silence that creates her.

Our story, written in the sheets—tomorrow’s laundry.

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