harrycane287
Newbie
In the quiet of the room, the air grows thick,
A rhythmic pulse, a frantic, fevered tick.
No longer just a whisper or a glance,
But the heavy weight of hunger, a primal dance.
It’s the pull of gravity in a darkened space,
The tracing of a line, the fever of the chase.
Lust is the spark that sets the marrow bright,
A wild, unscripted storm in the middle of the night.
Skin meets skin like a question meets a truth,
The reckless, burning ache of a long-lost youth.
It isn’t soft, it isn’t always kind—
It’s the body taking over what was left of the mind.
Breath hitches sharp, a tangled, velvet knot,
Forgiving every boundary that the day forgot.
A temporary drowning, a sweet and sudden fire,
Bound within the tension of a singular desire.
And when the embers settle and the shadows lean,
There’s the heavy, golden silence of the space between—
Where the world starts rushing back into the room,
Leaving only the scent of the lightning and the gloom.
A rhythmic pulse, a frantic, fevered tick.
No longer just a whisper or a glance,
But the heavy weight of hunger, a primal dance.
It’s the pull of gravity in a darkened space,
The tracing of a line, the fever of the chase.
Lust is the spark that sets the marrow bright,
A wild, unscripted storm in the middle of the night.
Skin meets skin like a question meets a truth,
The reckless, burning ache of a long-lost youth.
It isn’t soft, it isn’t always kind—
It’s the body taking over what was left of the mind.
Breath hitches sharp, a tangled, velvet knot,
Forgiving every boundary that the day forgot.
A temporary drowning, a sweet and sudden fire,
Bound within the tension of a singular desire.
And when the embers settle and the shadows lean,
There’s the heavy, golden silence of the space between—
Where the world starts rushing back into the room,
Leaving only the scent of the lightning and the gloom.
