Hands meet in the middle,
as our bodies intertwine.
You are:
Feeling me — Filling me.
I quiver, you grasp,
I moan, you clap,
You conquer, I divide,
You please, I derive.
It’s 1:31AM,
Our hands no longer meet,
It’s three on your body,
One on my throat.
Three thrusts,
to keep me at your door.
Two more,
to leave me sore by morning.
One last —
to fill my core.
And in the end,
We settle —
with a night etched into skin and breath.
Arus' Poetry 