A Relentless Tide

A collaborative piece about the electrical current of want and the soft, vulnerable undoing that follows.

May it leave you in the afterglow.✨

Chi regular, Nia italicized.

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The world unthreads itself when you are near,  
A sudden silence in a crowded space.  
The only sound I ever want to hear  
Is how your breathing alters in this place.  

I turn to tide beneath your waiting skin,  
Pulled by a rhythm only we can trace…  
The night leans closer - holding us within,  
As want threads quietly through the air we share.  

Your eyes withhold a language under glass,  
A silent promise of the things we need.  
A quiet touch along your waiting skin,  
Static-current coiled in heat.  

I read the tremor folded in your pause,  
The way desire loosens every space…  
Your nearness draws me past the edge of thought,  
Till something held too tight in me gives way.  

The shadows stretch across the empty floor,  
While distance fails between us, inch by inch.  
Your lips are warm against my aching throat,  
A faultline tremor I cannot override.  

The night forgets the angles of the walls,  
As if the dark conspires to draw us near…  
Your heartbeat answers softly through the hush,  
And thins the final distance lingering here.  

Untethered drift beyond the reach of oar,  
We yield completely to the rising tide.  
No words are spoken in this holy dark,  
Each contact point - an overloading spark.  

You draw me closer than the night permits,  
Till even silence trembles where we stand…  
The space between our breaths becomes its own  
Relentless tide no will can countermand.  

Our hands entwine as if to hold the clock,  
To stop the morning from its cold return.  
Against the cage of bone, our spirits knock,  
A low, contained, ungovernable burn.  

So let the embers settle into glow,  
Softening where they once refused restraint…  
The stars withdraw and yield the sky to dawn,  
Yet leave me marked by all we could not name.  

There is no deeper truth I need to know  
Than what is written on your sleeping face.  
Held in the afterglow of what we’ve undone,  
The long, dark night softens - but does not end.