Sonnet

A page is not enough for me,
nor ink, nor whispered syllables.
Words fail where longing lingers,
where the pulse of need outwrites the quill.
You are not meant for paper, love,
but for the lips that shape your name.

Let my tongue script you in quiet devotion,
tracing the soft curve of your collarbone,
each kiss a stanza, each sigh a verse,
each moan a line I long to repeat.
You are a poem best read in the dark,
where breath, not ink, spills confessions.

I would write you in the language of touch,
slow strokes, the rhythm of pulse and gasp,
hands spelling secrets against your skin,
bodies bound in quiet rhymes of want.
Your trembling becomes my punctuation,
your pleasure, the only line I crave.

So let me draft my longing in warmth,
press poetry where only silence speaks.
No ink, no pen—just the heat of my mouth,
a hymn of lips tracing, shaping, taking.
Until the only words left between us are gasps,
until we are nothing but poetry.

Oxytocin Dreams

I want to feel the pulse
of your fornix beneath my touch,
taste the breath of your cortex,
kiss the secrets of your intelligence.

Let me drink from the river of your meninges,
play within the gentle current of your pons,
my fingers tracing the dance
between your hemispheres.

Let me crawl deep within your hypothalamus,
entangle with the rhythm of your heart,
tango with your synapses,
as your mind opens like a flower in bloom.

I’ll slip into the folds of your splenius capitis,
a whisper on the edges of your skin,
until your cells are undone by desire,
and your amygdala burns with longing.

Together, we’ll ignite your frontal lobe,
my gaze drowning in the pull of your third eye,
hypnotising your cerebral cortex
till the oxytocin flows,
and we become one with the stars.