12/02/2025
Our passion is not pretend,
nor tempered by the taming hands of men.
It bursts, wild and unyielding,
unfit for manmade things—
only the root bed of an ancient oak
could cradle such unbridled yearning.
Beneath its canopy,
we collide like storms—
thunderous, electric,
raw as the earth itself.
The forest hums with our rhythm,
the moss whispers secrets to the soil.
No ocean is vast enough,
no waves fierce enough
to rival the tides we conjure—
not even Nazaré,
where the cliffs tremble beneath salt and spray,
could mimic the crest and fall
of our wanting,
the way your body answers mine,
thread and thighs entwined.
The fire of us
is feral and unrelenting,
scorching the hollow artifice of this fragile world.
We are no facsimile.
No false flame.
We burn true,
and the dead wood falls away,
leaving only bedrock and blossom,
ash and bloom.
Here, at the edge of what is known,
we are endless,
eternal,
primal.
We are carved from ancient hunger,
older than language,
older than light.
Your touch is the first sunrise—
golden and unstoppable,
pulling the night from my skin
like a lover shedding silk.
The scent of us lingers—
wildflower and sweat,
the metallic tang of want
that no rain can wash away.
Your breath fans the embers
deep within my chest,
and I shudder,
a tree split by lightning,
roots deep, yet trembling.
We are not of this world.
We belong to the pulse beneath it,
to the earth that groans and sighs
beneath our weight,
to the stars that collapse into one another,
hot and infinite,
every time our bodies meet.
Beds will be broken.
But not in dishonor or disgrace.
But as a sacrifice to this sensual soul of satisfaction to something beyond this simple body and its being.
Larson Langston
Larson Langston
