Lingered Heat

Fingers graze like whispers—

soft, deliberate, unhurried.

You pull me in,

not with words,

but with the gravity of your presence.

A storm, without the rain.

Firelight, dancing in shadows.

Your voice—

low, like velvet smoke,

filling the spaces between my breaths.

Each word?

A tether.

Each pause?

A promise.

No rush.

No haste.

Just the slow burn of now.

Your hands?

They don’t just touch;

they tell stories,

carving chapters into my skin,

tracing worlds I never thought I’d feel.

The room fades—

it’s only us,

the weight of unspoken things,

pressing heavy,

like the hum of thunder.

And I’m letting go,

falling into this moment,

where control doesn’t matter,

and surrender tastes like freedom.

Each second stretches.

Do you feel it?

A lifetime—right here,

in the beat of your pulse,

the heat of your hands.

Stay.

Let’s drown in this unhurried heat.

Don’t let the night slip through our fingers.

Don’t let the air hold anyone but us.

Linger.

Slow.

And infinite.