The Soft Descent

In the soft descent,

where flesh unravels into vapor,

he draws her into the churning void—

where she becomes formless, nameless,

only a breath, a flame

adrift in the honey-red womb of night.

His sweet and salted scent

drives her past reason.

His lips are a gate;

she kisses them and falls

into the abyss.

She enters—willingly—

never to return.

Her desire melts like wax,

dripping upon his skin;

but he only laughs,

rising to the edge of bliss,

to that exquisite pain

that crowns all mortal joy.

Upon the bed of love,

where a thousand tender suicides bloom,

they taste each other beyond flesh.

He is the chalice, the hidden prayer,

the memory of a thousand years’ dance.

They die—

only to rise again,

carrying each other’s souls

like bruised petals

within their trembling skins.

-Tea Franca