The Dreamer's Pen

The moon spills like silk upon our skin,
cool and silver, breathless and knowing.
It watches as your hands trace constellations
against the curves of my longing.

Night folds around us, slow and endless,
a hush between heartbeats, between lips.
Your whispers melt into my pulse,
each word a spark, a slow-burning ember.

If time were kind, it would stop here,

where moonlight lingers in tangled sheets,
where your touch is fire, and I am willing,
where we exist only in this fevered glow.

But the night is fleeting, and so are we,
a love written in stardust and sighs.
Yet even as the dawn steals you away,
the moonlight remembers.

And so do I.