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We are not much more
than this.
This quiet moment
dripping in perfect
acceptance.
This utopian love.
This quiet moment before I kiss you,
pull you close,
and writhe against your heat.
We are not much more
than the feeling of
fingertips gliding over
wanting bare skin.
Feels like sunlight, warm.
Almost a burning.
It almost hurts,
almost enough.
We are not much more than this.
The longing and begging.
More, baby, more.
The feeling of our skin meeting, heaven
We are this lust,
this love.
We are not much more
than this perfection
we create.