A Way to Us

The air between us is thinning,

a fault line shivering under the weight

of all the things I haven’t dared to say.

It’s in the static of a casual glance,

the way the room tilts on its axis

when you shift, when you breathe,

when the silence grows teeth

and begins to hunger.

I am tracing the architecture of your ghost—

the phantom heat of your skin

before we’ve even touched.

There is a fever rising in the marrow,

a primitive, tectonic ache

that insists on collision.

I don’t want to be gentle with this.

I want to dismantle the distance,

to carve my name into the rhythm of your pulse

until we are nothing but friction,

nothing but the deep, dark gravity

of two bodies finally deciding

to lose their way in each other.