A Map of Quiet Fires

Her skin drinks light like rivers take rain, each dappled edge and sun-struck curve, a landscape under my hands, soft yet severe, where desire meets the edge of breath. Fingers trace the small hollows of her hip, catching sunlight in each soft valley, dipping, trembling, as if they might slip into some dark, endless tenderness. She is a map of quiet fires, a fever I can barely hold. I find her pulse in the hush of thighs, the places where words lose themselves. My mouth opens to meet her skin, each kiss a tender bruise of ache, pressed and perfect, lush as wine that fills, that floods, till reason splits. We break where passion's blinding flares, colliding in waves of sweet surrender, so fierce the ache it stings like glass, we drink of each other, ravenous, undone. In the silence after, breath upon breath, her skin still glows with sunlit trace, and I am carved by the strength of her in places I never knew could break.