The twilight weaves a shroud of golden lace,
Upon the sacred silence of the room;
I trace the shifting shadows on your face,
Like petals falling in the softest gloom.
Your hand, a phantom weight against my skin,
Ignites a spark that smolders deep and sweet,
A tender crime, a holy, quiet sin,
Wherein our pulsing spirits softly meet.
No spoken word can match this heavy air,
Perfumed with longing and the scent of night;
I breathe the incense of your falling hair,
And lose my soul within this pale delight.
Thus bound by gaze and soft, electric thrill,
We drift upon a tide of warm desire;
Let time stand silent, let the world grow still,
Consumed within this chaste and burning fire.
For in the hush where lovers’ secrets keep,
Beyond the reach of mortal, waking eyes,
We sow the dreams that we are meant to reap,
Beneath the velvet of these midnight skies.
