Communication

You asked me what I wanted.

I hesitated. I stumbled.

This language of longing still feels younger than my years,

a dialect my skin speaks fluently while my mouth stumbles to form the words.

Once, a younger me would have answered differently.

She believed in the silent knowing, translating your breath into words.

But back then, my questions were unspoken, unsteady, unready.

And even if I had asked—

would you have known how to answer?

But now, our bodies speak freely.

Words slide between us, fluid and fearless.

Yes. I want that.

Touch me with gentleness and patience,

not as a gesture, but an offering.

Trace me like terrain—curious, careful,

learning the rhythm of my breath, not to claim, but to comprehend.

Will you touch me with gentleness, intention, and wonder?

Touch me for me—

for my pleasure, for my power.

Ask if it feels good; ask how I know.

I’ll answer in the language of desire:

Here. Now. Harder. Softer. Slower.

Look at me.

Will you touch me in the way my body dares to be discovered?

I want to consume and be consumed,

to meet where wildness becomes worship,

where pain melts into pleasure.

I want the heat of heartbeat and hunger,

the sound of sighs, shivers, and sweat  spilling from our skin.

In an exquisite echo that exists only now.

May I devour you, and will you devour me?

Will you talk to me?

Because bliss is born in words—

“Will you?” and “May I?”—

delicious, decadent, divine invitations.

They are not just permission but poetry,

the foundation on which ecstasy is built

They tell me you are capable, conscious, and craving.

They tell me you are ready for rapture.

They tell me you can meet me here—

in this sacred surrender,

where words and want become one.