And Then, The FireI want you like a match wants friction—lik..

And Then, The Fire

I want you like a match wants friction—
like the split second before the flame licks up
and consumes everything.

My hands find the heat in you before the light switch clicks,
before air dares to still—
there is already a riot in my bloodstream,
set off by the gravity of your mouth
moving toward mine like it has known me
in every other life.

You touch me like I’m already undone,
like you read the secrets beneath my skin
before I can whisper them,
before I even think to ask.
And gods, the way your fingertips hover,
not quite landing, just promising—
that’s where I start to lose language.
That’s where I begin to beg
without saying a thing.

We are not gentle.
This is not soft love, not tonight.
This is teeth and breath,
flesh on flesh like fever
and desperate need.

I press you to the wall with something like reverence
and something like hunger
that’s gone far too long unmet.
My mouth charts the map of your collarbone,
your throat,
the shiver-place where your sigh turns into a sound
I will replay later,
shamelessly.

You say my name like it’s breaking in you,
like it’s falling from the back of your throat
with the weight of desire
you didn’t mean to carry.

And then your hands—
fuck—
the way they explore, command, invite,
dare me to unravel.
You hold me there, open and gasping,
like you could drink from me.
And maybe you do.
Maybe you do.

I want to make a mess of you—
the kind that drips,
the kind that stains sheets,
the kind you find bruised onto your hip
three days later
and ache to feel again.

I want to hear you lose composure,
say my name like it’s sin and salvation,
pull me closer until I can’t tell
where your hunger ends and mine begins.

I don’t want a slow burn.
I want the whole fucking fire.

I want the crash of bodies and breath
like we are trying to become
a single ruined, radiant thing.

No hesitation.
No scripts.
Just the truth of your pulse
against my palm
as I take you
again
and again
until even the walls remember our names.

Bleed for me, in moans, in sweat,
in the sacred wreckage of touch.
This is what worship looks like
when the altar is the body
and the god is want.

And I will pray with every inch of you.
Until there’s nothing left
but the echo
of us.