Flesh on flesh

 
I imagine us like animals, groping with dumb hands and exhaling fire, fixated on each other. If the world were to end, we wouldn't even know. We'd be madly making love like this. 

I see myself obsessively, passionately, rapturously handling you. It's always from behind, as if I saw your face, it would be over in seconds. And I want this to last. I want to feel like I've gone to the edge with you and returned, sweaty and tired but proud.

Your face turns enough for me to see your eyes closed tight, and my mouth rushes to meet yours, but you turn away again. Your body is clothed in odd sections, unclothed in the only way that matters right now — underwear still clinging to one foot, skirt on the bed, blouse and bra still on, and my favorite necklace gathering moisture on your neck. 

The ache is a whole-body ache. The inevitable release is like a perfect spring day after a long winter, like finishing a grueling race, like souls crashing together. It's explosive; it's mind-erasing, and it's perfect because it's you and me and no one else. You've put me inside you, and I never want to leave. You're my beautiful, my home, my lover, my everything. 

You feel the fire inside me pushing into you, setting you ablaze. You close your eyes because it's too much — the feelings, the flesh on flesh, the rioting in your brain, the noise inside that wants to say everything all at once — and you're just left with, "I love you, I fucking love you" ... and all I can say is your name.