Permission

You—
the altar where my longing prays,
the body I have seen in dreams,
a vision carved of fire and breath,
of silk and sin, of sacred flesh.

No,
not the glint of gold or painted lips,
not lace that clings or jewels that gleam—
but the quiet thunder of your skin,
the way your curves eclipse the light.

I
am helpless in your presence,
a pilgrim aching at your door,
seeking passage through the night,
a worshiper at your core.

May
my gaze unmake you slowly,
trace the constellations of your skin,
map the valleys, climb the peaks,
drink you in—flaws and all?

May
my hands, unhurried, knowing, bold,
wander where your breath unravels,
linger where the fire pools,
write devotion on your bones?

May
my lips descend like whispered vows,
tongue seeking rivers deep,
sipping from the well of want,
drunk on the flood of your release?

Yes—
you, too, may claim me whole,
undo me with your mouth, your hands,
take me, ruin me, write me in your language,
until we are nothing but pulse and heat,
a poem only bodies can speak.