The sheets wake up like paper after rain,
creased with the evidence we couldn’t hide—
a rumpled atlas under lamplight, mapping where
your breath met mine and stayed inside.
I read the wrinkles like a witness;
each fold a clue the light can’t hide.
Your perfume and my sweat trade places,
and I grin at what the cotton won’t deny.
You call it reckless. I call it honest.
I call it hunger with a smarter name.
I call it two grown bodies arguing,
then choosing heat instead of blame.
Your laugh turns low, your eyes turn bold,
the room shrinks small, the world turns tame.
We move like thunder under linen,
and the bed keeps score without a claim.
Your fingers pull my shirt aside,
then stop, then start again—
patience learning how to quit.
You look at me like I’m a dare you chose,
then chose again, then chose to commit.
I kiss your shoulder slow and certain,
and your spine replies with one clean fit.
The room turns blurry at the edges,
like all the clocks agreed to miss a bit.
I watch your hair spill across the pillow,
dark ink on white, a gorgeous stain.
Your breathing changes rhythm,
sounds like luck refusing to stay plain.
Your hips find mine in practiced language,
not polite, not cautious, not in chain.
When you pull me closer,
the world forgets its own last name.
I think about the sermons I swallowed,
all the rules that tried to make desire behave,
all the cold talk men use to feel brave,
all the jokes we tell to look untouchable.
Then you arch like you’re done negotiating,
and I learn what it means to crave—
not just the body, not just the moment,
but the fearless way you refuse to be saved.
After, the room is a slow confession,
warm air, damp hair, your mouth half smile.
We lie in the aftermath like thieves
who got away and still decide to stay awhile.
My hand rests on your waist like an oath,
your hand on mine makes me worthwhile.
The sheets hold our messy handwriting,
and I let them keep the file.
If morning tries to judge us, let it try.
It can glare through blinds and act severe.
We’ll drink our coffee like conspirators,
calm as sin, keeping each other near.
Let the world wear its stiff opinions,
let it talk tough, let it sneer.
Tonight the cotton keeps our secret,
and the secret tastes like getting clear.