Hiding from the light

[Moochienanu]

When I think of His hands

Sometimes I swear my body calls for Him—
a low, slow ache that hums beneath my skin,
restless, needy, half-mad with wanting.

I know how His touch begins like a question,
how the answer unfolds in a shiver,
how everything inside me tilts toward yes.

The thought of Him unravels me—
the weight of His gaze,
the promise in His breath against my throat,
the way He lingers where heat gathers.

I need Him near enough to steal my composure,
to trace that thin line between restraint and ruin,
to make me forget every good intention
until all that’s left is the sound of my pulse
and His name caught between my teeth.

Sometimes I think He knows—
how my body betrays me,
how even silence tastes like invitation,
how every breath I take
is already reaching for His.

how I am His.

 

[Moochienanu]

Storm-Touched

Rain drummed low against the windows,
a steady heartbeat the night had loaned us,
and you stood so close behind me
I could feel the warmth of your breath
before it reached my skin.

The storm wrapped the room in silver hush,
and when your fingers brushed my arm—
slow, deliberate—
they traced a line that sparked
all the way down my spine.

I turned just enough
to meet your eyes in the dim light,
the kind that softens every edge
until wanting becomes the only thing
with any shape at all.

You didn’t speak.
You didn’t need to.
Your hands found my hips
with a tenderness that trembled,
as though the rain itself
was guiding your touch,
drawing me closer
inch by impossible inch.

Warmth gathered between us—
a quiet urgency—
and my breath caught
when your lips skimmed my shoulder,
slow enough to savor,
deep enough to undo me.

The world outside blurred to water and shadow,
but here—
in this secret glow of thunderlight—
I melted into the way you held me,
the way your palms mapped my curves
like a story you knew by heart.

Every drop of rain seemed to fall
in time with my pulse,
and the night—
full, heavy, wanting—
pressed us closer
until there was nothing left
but the heat of your touch
and the soft, breathless truth
that I had wanted this
far longer than I could ever say.

And still,
as the storm sang its low, relentless song,
you drew me nearer—
a little more,
and then a little more—
until the whole world
was rain,
and you,
and the space between us
finally giving way.

Happy (a day late) Birthday, Daddy

 

[42BelowsBack]

Bump.

Good poet this.

 

[Angeline]

Bump.

Good poet this.

She's really good! More people need to read her!

 

[Moochienanu]

Thinking of you

Summer is ending slowly,
as if it knows I’m not ready
to let you go.

The air still carries a late heat—
soft, heavy, almost sticky on the skin—
like breath held too long in a closed room.

You, with years behind your eyes,
a steadiness I mistook for restraint,
until you were close enough
that I could hear the quiet shift of your breathing
and forget my own name.

We were reckless in the warmth,
sheets tangled and damp with summer sweat,
the hum of a distant fan,
bare skin after midnight, before dawn…
your mouth against my neck—warm, unhurried—
my fingers tracing the places
where your composure broke like thin glass under heat

Outside, the season was dying—
leaves turning with a dry rustle in the wind,
nights arriving earlier with a cooler edge,
the last heat pressing faintly against the windows
as if reluctant to leave,
like you always are.

But inside your hands
there was still now—
still warmth, still weight,
the faint salt of skin,
the soft pressure of touch that lingered even after it left.

And maybe that is what hurts:
knowing this was never meant
to become anything more
than a summer—
something that burns bright,
then fades into the sound of crickets and cooling air.

Still, I will remember
the weight of you against me,
the quiet afterward—our uneven breathing,
the rustle of sheets settling back into place,
the way you looked at me in the dim light
as though the room itself had stopped moving,
as though we had all the time
in the world.

Summer ends.

I don’t.

 

[sirhugs]

It's like you painted a picture of your soul with words, and sent it to speak to me.