Desire held tight, as beautiful and delicate as blown glass. Clasped so close holding and held lose distinction, your own heart beat the weight of hand upon your skin. That feel of clothes removed with breathless purpose, the touch of moonlight spilled down your spine. The soul unwinds, so hot and hungry. Your eyes are lit and the very air is appetite.
The motions of reaching, the whispered incantations, the certainty of your ritual tongue. All these moments of utter purpose, the stretch and gather of thought so furiously held to the bones. The passion grasps and fills you, warm words listing in your mouth. That kiss, the brittle pungency of being, dissolved slowly, breath trickling down your lips. All the meat of this magic, taught and absolute, as cleansing as a shower, as resolute as stone.
Your soul is the gnashed teeth of intention, leavening time and matter with cloudbursts and bite-marks. It is folded, again and again, the origami work of such furtive repetition, until each wish and sentiment is tucked inside itself. Every crease brings you closer to the opening of want, each litany teaches you the shape of spirit leaving. Light each candle, shroud each secret. The spell you cast is written upon the insides, not of your eyes but of your seeing. The shine of brittle desire, woven into your knowing bones.
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