Warmth Under the Skin

It begins with a shiver..

a tremor in the wrist,

a gasp where breath has been held too long.

The page accepts the first touch,

hesitant, aching,

as if it has been waiting just as hungrily.

Color spreads like warmth under skin,

slow at first, then faster,

veins rushing open after a winter of silence.

Every stroke is a pulse,

every curve a stolen heartbeat.

The body leans closer,

drawn by something it cannot name

but cannot resist.

What was pressure becomes heat.

What was silence becomes a rhythm,

a slow, rolling tide pulling everything loose.

The brush drinks greedily,

the pen moans through the page,

and you follow,

surrendering to the flood.

It is hunger..

raw and relentless

yet it soothes as it devours.

It is ache turned into bloom,

weight turned into flight.

Every mark whispers back:

Yes. Yes. More.

And when it breaks

when the dam is undon

there is nothing but release.

A dizzy collapse,

lungs wide with air you didn’t know you’d lost.

The page, trembling,

stares back at you like a body spent,

like a lover who has tasted your storm

and is still hungry for more.