I slip into your skin, a trespasser in the temple of longing. The air thickens, charged with anticipation—a prelude to the tempest that awaits. My fingers trace the contours of your existence, mapping constellations of secrets etched upon your canvas.

Your skin—oh, your skin—is parchment for whispered confessions. Each pore, a wellspring of stories waiting to be inked. I read you like a sacred text, deciphering the hieroglyphs of desire. My eyes, those curious voyagers, drink from your wells of vulnerability. They savor the taste of vulnerability—the sweet ache of surrender.

And then, our lips collide—a cataclysm of need. There’s madness in that kiss, a primal hunger that defies reason. We are beasts unchained, clawing at the boundaries of civility. Our mouths, once mere vessels for words, now spill forth a lexicon of longing. It’s a language older than time, spoken by stars and whispered by ancient forests.

In this moment, we shed our pretenses. The world shrinks to the span of our bodies—the heat, the friction, the pulse of existence. Our breaths syncopate, a rhythm born from chaos. We are elemental: fire and water, earth and air. Our flesh roars, syllables of ecstasy woven into sinew and bone.

And as our souls converge, we become constellations—two astral bodies entwined. The universe leans in, curious. Does it envy our recklessness? Or does it recognize itself in our primal dance—the same cosmic urge that birthed galaxies and set planets spinning?

Perhaps the stars, too, ache for touch—to slide into one another’s gravity, to ignite and collapse. We mirror their longing, our bodies alchemical crucibles. Passion spills forth like stardust, and we are both creators and creation—a celestial collision writ small.

So let us revel in this base instinct, this primal symphony. Our love, unfiltered and unapologetic, echoes across the eons. We are more than flesh; we are cosmic poetry—a verse inscribed on the skin of infinity.

© Beatriz Esmer