Your breath meets mine,
and the air shimmers—
thick with the weight of what we can’t say,
heavy like rain that never falls.
There’s a charge in the room,
electric and sharp,
like lightning before it splits the sky.
We’re standing at the edge of something vast,
something wild, and I can feel it crackle,
the heat between us, burning bright,
a secret flame that flickers,
hungry, waiting to consume.
I trace the line of your jaw,
your skin warm,
smooth like the surface of still water
just before the storm comes in.
I feel the tremor in your pulse,
the quick stutter,
like a drumbeat, I can’t quite catch.
We’re caught in this dance,
close but never close enough,
a game of touch and retreat,
push and pull,
each moment stretched thin,
a thread ready to snap.
You smile, and it’s fire—
a slow burn that curls at the edges.
I see the mischief in your eyes,
the dare, the unspoken yes.
I’m pulled into your orbit,
a moth drawn to a flame,
knowing the scorch, craving the singe.
Your hands linger just shy of mine,
a breath away,
fingers twitching with the promise
of more, of everything.
We’re teetering on a tightrope,
a line of tension drawn tight,
fraying with every second.
We talk in circles,
words that mean nothing and everything,
every syllable a spark,
every laugh a flicker.
Your voice, low and rich,
wraps around me like smoke,
thick and sweet,
luring me deeper into this haze.
We are tangled, not just in limbs,
but in want, in need—
a craving that burns hotter
than any fire I’ve ever known.
The heat is alive, it’s a living thing,
it curls between us,
an invisible thread pulling tight.
There’s no escaping it,
no dousing this kind of flame.
It clings to our skin,
sinks into our bones,
a fever we can’t shake.
I can feel it under my ribs,
a constant hum,
a slow simmer just waiting to burst.
You lean in, and I catch my breath,
your lips close, not quite touching,
a whisper away from mine.
There’s irony in the space between us,
the smallest distance,
the grandest canyon.
We could cross it,
we could bridge it with a kiss,
with the press of lips and skin and want,
but we linger here,
in the heat, in the almost,
where everything feels sharper,
brighter, like the first spark of a match.
The room is thick with tension,
and I can’t tell if it’s you or me
or this unspoken pull,
this magnetism that defies all reason.
I feel the sweat gather at my temples,
the way the air feels heavy,
like it’s bearing down,
like it’s watching us,
waiting for one of us to break.
And maybe that’s the point,
perhaps that’s the truth—
that the heat between us
isn’t meant to be doused,
It isn’t meant to be excellent.
It’s intended to burn,
to keep us on the edge,
caught in the glow of what could be,
what might be,
if we give in,
if we just let go.
The heat is relentless,
it sears, it scars,
but I wouldn’t trade it,
not for a second.
Because of the heat between us,
this fever, this fire—
it’s the only thing that feels real,
the only thing that burns bright enough
to light the dark.
For poetry and more, visit Mecella.