Press

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Press

It starts in silence,
not absence,
but the kind of quiet
where breath becomes language,
and hands are permission
to connect in ways
we never have to
question.

We kiss often and deeply —
not to begin things,
but to mark where we
already live.

Your fingers know
how to part me open
and hold me there —
soaked,
arching,
a thing undone
with no need for
metaphor.

We may bond with words,
but fall by our tongues —
slick with truths
we’re too careful
to name.

We press our bodies
into conversation,
the kind that goes on
for hours,
until we finally break,
wet with want—
a gap we both can feel,
but only feed,
when the space between us
disappears but for
a moment.

Kayla