desire

I am the silent orchid in the wildwood—
      blooming unseen,
      in the deep verdant of solitude,
where whispers of the wind
      stir the symphony of my soul,
      and the earth—firm, unyielding—
cradles my roots.

His touch, a cascade of warmth,
      ignites a conflagration within,
      his fingers, artisans,
crafting desire from the clay of my being,
      his lips, the architects
      of my sighs, drafting blueprints
of bliss upon my skin.

His presence, a magnetic field,
      drawing me into the orbit
      of his celestial body,
our breaths mingling, a nebula forming
      in the vacuum between us,
      his form, the gravity
that anchors my insatiable need.

In the closeness of our entwined shadows,
      I am the moth ensnared by the flame,
      each movement, each touch,
a brushstroke of longing
      on the canvas of my flesh,
      painting the portrait
of a hunger too vast for words.

In this moment, I am all sensation—
      a creature of the moon's tender glow,
      awash in the tide of a desire so vast,
it threatens to consume me,
      yet I am unafraid,
      for in this surrender,
I find myself whole.