All that you have desired

I don’t want flowers.
I want your hands pressed 
against the small of my back 
like you’ve been thirsty for this skin
since the day you were born.

I want your eyes to unbutton me, slow
like you’re reading a book 
you’re not sure you deserve to finish. 

I want you to tell me how the sight of my collarbone 
undoes you,
how the scent of my hair makes you think 
of every hunger
you’ve never named aloud.

And then —when the night leans in quiet,
I want you to feel my pulse
under your palm
and know
that this is not just desire
but recognition of my soul.

That somewhere between
my sighs and your fingers
is the place you have always been trying 
to come home to.

Photo by Danie Franco on Unsplash