Some masks are beautiful. Like you...

Us... The room forgets its edges when weight settles.. not a collision.. a returning. Palms find the small of my backs.. We answer in the same low register.. the way a tide knows the shore it has already worn smooth. Lips press.. not because We ask.. because the shape of Us was already written in the places that go quiet. Heat gathers where We meet and stays there... unhurried... Breath... bathes... bodies... We don't hurry the places that remember each other... a knee shifts.. a hip answers.. the slow press and release becomes its own language... older than Us... content to be spoken only in skin. When the tremor starts.. we don't break apart.. it draws the circle tighter... lips press on corners of mouths.. hands stay where they landed.. learning the exact temperature of staying.. After... the air is sweeter.. thicker.. still holding the outline of Our need.. without needing to name Us...;)