It started well before our lips touched—
               somewhere in the silence,
    in the space that pulled us forward,
     each breath an unfinished sentence
          neither of us had to complete.

There was gravity in the approach,
           a subtle inevitability—

     a question asked and answered
     in the quiet language of leaning closer,
                              eyes softening,
                              hearts beating.

Then contact—
     gentle but firm,
     a promise sealed without words,

     recognition and surprise both whispering agreement.

Your mouth tasted like certainty.
     Like relief.
     Like welcome.
     Yet somehow, also—
          like longing,

     the kind that grows deeper the moment it’s satisfied.

Hands found faces, shoulders, hair—
      fingers mapping skin,
      memorizing texture,
            temperature,

      holding on as though the moment could be anchored…
                                                   kept.

And when we finally parted,
    it wasn’t an ending,
    but a semicolon in midair—

    a pause,
      breath,
      *reassurance*

    that this conversation isn't over.