Rapture Without Mercy

“Strip me of language until all that’s left is breath and heat. No metaphors, no metaphysics— just the quake of your spine when my hands find the fault lines you hide. We are not lovers tonight. We are storms. Crashing, breaking, hungry gods in borrowed skin. Every inch of you begs for the brink, and I am the cliff — dangerous, necessary. You lean in, trembling, and I don’t offer safety. Only the thrill of falling. Only the scream before impact. My name isn’t something you say, it’s something you moan between clenched teeth, a prayer and a curse tangled in the dark. You come apart like starlight unraveling — and I devour each fragment like it’s gospel. I don’t care if we sin. I hope we do. Let the sheets bear witness, let the walls memorize our wild, let the moon envy us. This is not about love. This is about surrender. Flesh to flesh. Soul to soul. No apologies. No aftermath. Just the now. The fire. The ruin. And when we’re spent— still feral, still lit from the inside out— we will lie in the wreckage and smile like thieves who stole heaven and made it scream.”