Liturgies of the Flesh

You arrived like dusk— not falling, but folding the sky inward, your body a benediction I knelt to translate. No prayer passed my lips, only the hush of devotion, tongue pressed to the scripture written in your trembling. And when you opened— not like a door, but like dusk releases the bloom too shy for daylight— I drank not of desire but of trust, poured full. Your thighs curved like parentheses around a secret I was meant to hold. Your hands, constellations mapping the shape of surrender. We traced each other in tides, language drawn from salt and ache. I descended beneath reason, rose beneath breath. My name vanished into your gasp as yours bloomed on my tongue. We were not two, but twin liturgies— each mouth a chalice, each exhale, gospel. We worshipped without altar, knowing the body is the holiest text we dare not read aloud. And when we broke, it was not into silence but into starlight— shared, swallowed, sung.