What the Mouth Remembers

You stood like dusk before me, quiet and burning at the edges. I knelt, not to worship — but to listen to the storm beneath your stillness. And later, when you opened like evening — petal by pulse, I came not to take but to taste what you trust. My lips learned your language one slow syllable at a time, your breath catching like candlelight in a room forbidden to flame. Thighs, hands, gates, tides — we offered our silence in mirrored submission. I stayed low, beneath the spoken, you leaned in, past control — we drank from each other until names unraveled into salt and sky. You shattered not into pieces, but into light, and I carried you on my tongue as you carried me on yours — two mouths full of reverence, two bodies fluent in hush.