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Sex is Play
Play, like breath igniting life,
wild animal in the ribcage,
a flame caught in the pull of night's dark thread
it whispers the ancient hum,
not the hush of apology but the loud echo of galaxies.
Skin, soft as dust against stars,
glows in the ecstatic tension,
stretching out in the reckless curves of time.
We fall into it, unlearn gravity,
become architects of chaos, of sweat and laughter,
our bodies - maps with no borders.
Play, because touch is language,
a conversation of pulse and instinct,
where rules shatter beneath a storm of hands
and the air forgets the burden of propriety.
It is a dance of forgetting ourselves
and becoming animals, children, gods,
twisting in a place where no wrong exists,
just the physics of limbs, the art of madness,
and the permission to be undone.
Sex is Play.
A game where the end doesn't matter,
only the fire of the moment,
the breaking of worlds in a glance,
a kiss that isn't an apology.
Here, we are infinite in the ache,
and we laugh, in the way only lovers do,
as we fall again,
naked in the chaos of everything.
