Skin & staccato

I want to trace the sweat-slicked line of your throat,

my tongue following the vibration of every moan

until the music is nothing but the sound of us

colliding in the dark.

My hands aren't gentle; they are seeking,

gripping the curve of your hips to pull you flush,

grinding the tempo into your skin

until you’re arched like a bow under my weight.

Forget the melody give me the raw, guttural noise,

the way your nails score a rhythm into my back

when the friction burns too hot to hold.

I want to feel your heart thudding against my ribs,

a frantic, driving percussion

that mirrors the way I’m taking you

unfiltered, heavy, and deep.

We are a crescendo of skin and salt,

teeth grazing a shoulder, fingers tangled in hair,

pushing past the limits of the beat

until we break.

There is no grace in this, only hunger,

the wet, rhythmic slide of our bodies

becoming the only song that matters,

played out until we’re both breathless and wrecked.

©️ Onyiamas

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