When We Spoon Revision

Your back, a velvet crescent, draws my chest like gravity. I map the slope of you slowly, each breath a question my hands almost ask. Flesh hums between folds of cotton, heat slipping into heat — a kind of friction language forgets, where fingertips write what mouths resist. You arch, slightly — a sigh or a signal, and my pulse answers before I do. This hush is not silence — it’s a storm paused, a fuse lit beneath restraint. Even the moon blushes, half-hidden behind clouds, as my thigh cups yours and the bed tilts toward temptation. We are a poem unfinished, lines unwritten but implied, rhyming in rhythm, spooned in syntax, where meaning dares the margin.