The Evening Guest

The candle burned low, and she smiled at me, She leaned close, whispering soft words About our first meeting in Paris. Her fingers brushed my hand, and I shivered, Not from cold, from the weight of her nearness. We spoke of nothing, yet every pause Was filled with the gravity of something unspoken, Something waiting patiently beneath the calm. She laughed, and the sound slid right through the room, Curling around me like smoke, curling until I could feel it in my bones, The heat of it, the pulse of it, the inevitability. And then I touched her, gently at first, And she leaned into me, her lips against mine. I kissed her slowly, reverently, Feeling the tremor of her pulse beneath my hand, Until the trembling became something more, Something that filled the quiet room, Filling it with heat, and want, and silence. I could not bear the thought of letting go. Her hair fell across my fingers, Her skin glimmered in the firelight, And I held her close, closer than I ought, Closer than the world allows. I wrapped the hair around my fingers, And the fire seemed to steady, As if the world itself paused in acquiescence. She did not struggle. She could not. Her lips pressed to mine once more, And I held her in that still, perfect weight, Until all tremor had ceased, Until the quiet was complete, And nothing remained But the soft, warm silence Of our eternal union.