You write your name on my skin,
from across the room,
your gaze both creating boundaries
and opening up the universe,
silently telling me yes or no —
invisible conversations
between simple daily activities,
like dressing for dinner,
driving across town.

The heat of your touch
blossoms anew as I sit.

I hold the menu,
looking at the words,
but my mind is elsewhere,
following the stinging tendrils
of hand-shaped memory
beneath me.

Simple words float
across the table,
but your fingers are complex,
slowly tracing mine,
electrifying my flesh.

Sparks travel,
crashing past bone and muscle,
to the core of me.
You are the only one with the key
to that door.

You slip it in,
turn it,
push me open,
and enter,
filling the space.

We’ve only just arrived,
and no one else can see
how bound we are–
ropes tied around us
tightening with each look
into each other’s eyes.

But that is the nature of love.
Invisible.
Consuming.

We’ll finish our dinner,
talk about our day,
maybe watch TV.
But you will be inside me
the entire time,
carving out your place
and curling up to sleep
just beneath my soul.

“Don’t worry about the darkness in my soul.
It ignites me like an embered coal.”
– Anonymous

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