Pulse Point
The air is charged,
not with storm,
but the quiet thrum between us.
A current, invisible,
but drawing, pulling my eye,
my breath, to yours.
Your hand,
a cautious bird
alighting on my arm,
trills shivers not of dread,
but a wild, beating hope.
The world outside fades,
a hum in the background
to the sharp,
suddenly intense focus
of your eyes.
A cosmos contained
in their depths,
a whirlpool swirling galaxies
I want to explore.
My own heart,
usually a steady drum,
now a crazed hummingbird
beating against my ribcage.
Each beat an echo
of the unspoken question
hanging in the air
between our lips.
A silence so charged,
it crackles.
A held breath
before a leap.
Then the slightest movement,
a lean forward,
and the world turns
on its axis.
The brush of your fingers
against mine,
a spark that ignites
a wildfire inside.
My blood pounds,
like a thundering tide in my ears.
And in that arrested moment,
before any words spoken,
before any touch yet realized,
there is nothing but raw,
untamed promise
of something earth-shaking,
something magically,
horrid real.
My soul,
compass whirling wildly,
at last, irrevocably,
sets my North
only to you.