The Whispered Verse

Your fingertips speak
in soft verses
written on the silence
of my skin,
syllables blossoming
in the space between breaths,
quietly loud
like jasmine opening at midnight.

A whisper grazes
the wrist,
a tender punctuation
on the poem of us—
light as a leaf
that has surrendered
its green,
drifting downward,
slowly finding ground.

Your palm pressed
softly to my back
writes sonnets
in the language
only my spine understands,
each vertebra a stanza,
each gentle movement
a rhythm
of unspoken trust.

Between collarbone and pulse,
your quiet hands
trace invisible lines,
each touch an offering,
a confession
without words—
and yet,
I hear every line
clearly,
the murmured verses
of fingertips
that linger
like poetry,
endlessly rewriting
the poem of how
you choose me
again and again
in silence.