Member-only story
Tell-Tale Heartbeat
The night is ours.
I don’t know if painters could refine the way you look tonight — your dark hair shimmering like a shroud, the way goddesses might have been revered in ancient ruins long since destroyed. Perhaps you would have been a priestess to the gods back then, your body dripping with the riches of sanctity.
I’m no scholar or believer, but I’ll worship you as if you are that long-forgotten goddess of the night.
My heart thrums for you how drowning men might feel before the water claims them in their final moments. You kiss along my jaw, down my neck, toward the beat that races against your touch. I’m not a dying man — not yet — but our midnight hours always leave me feeling breathlessly close to the edge of something I cannot name.
I say your name like it’s a mantra — or a prayer — but I know I cannot capture you. Watching you, I realize you are your own power. And I’m just basking in your glow for another evening rendezvous.
In many ways, someone might say you own me. The moon is the witness, writing your name on my skin.
It doesn’t matter. The night is ours. Let’s claim it.
