By one touch, I have stitched my heartbeat to yours—
I pressed my devotion into your veins,
licked the copper of your blood from my fingertips,
and in that sweetness, I mourned
the fragility of this fleeting flesh.

I traced the hollows of your body with trembling hands,
mapping every whisper, every tremor, as the clock devours us.
As if our sinews entwined could still the slow rot of time.

As if love were a sacrament,
and our bodies the fangs of a single beast,
drinking each other with reverent hunger.

We writhe in shadows and fire,
a cathedral of breath and fevered touch.

I offer my hands, my mouth, my frenzied pulse,
to the ritual we have become—
brittle goblets of worship,
shivering vessels of sacred ache,

aware that even in this intimate communion
we are both vulnerable, both bleeding, both undone.

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𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤

Pretty words for ugly things.

• Buried Correspondence
• Poetry
• Stories

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