Erotic Poems for the One Who Fills My Late Night Thoughts

I write these words for you, my love, in the quiet hour after midnight when the whole house holds its breath. The candle on the desk leans toward the page as if it wants to read along, and I let it. Every line is a slow touch I could not give you tonight, every comma a pause where my lips would linger on your shoulder.

You are the first verse, the warm opening of a door. I trace the curve of your back in ink, the soft dip where your spine meets your hips, the way your breath changes when my hands learn you again. I write your name and it tastes like honey and salt, like the skin along your collarbone after we have kissed for far too long.

You are the second verse, the one that burns. I remember the weight of you above me, your hair falling like a curtain around our faces, the private world we built in the space between two sighs. I remember how you whispered my name, half plea and half promise, and how the night bent around that sound until there was nothing else.

You are the third verse, the gentle ending that never truly ends. When the poem is finished I will fold it twice and leave it on your pillow. You will find it in the morning light, still sleepy, still warm, and you will read each line slowly with a smile I already know by heart. Then you will look up at me, and the poem will begin again, this time written with our bodies instead of words.