Low lights and wooden planks cause low vibrations,
shaking free sweet wet droplets down curves of a naked back.
Outcast figures spurn new revolutions
that have happened time and time before.
Behind those closed doors
faint breathless voices rise
praising a God unknown in this moment.
We are secret here.
Safe in a meadow of our own making.
You move and I answer,
bodies entwined without beginning or end.
Hungry hips tell the tale of our rapture.
With a sweet exhaustion
comes silent revelry.
The night moves and the details grow sharper.
Bass mixes over chords soothing our rhythm,
light shinning bright without assistance.
You are pure in this magic.
I am free.