Red lace against tan thighs

Your hand brushes my arm

Our breathing becomes our language

As we meld

Into one.

Stars shoot across the sky

In approval of our love;

A symbiotic relationship

Not amensalism like before

But commensalism.

We were not the wildfire I wanted

We are the slow burn of passion

Heating up

Over the course of days

Then months

Until we combust

Together.

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