Let Heaven Try to be Louder

Follow me beyond the fence line,

where the road disappears

and the pines lean together

like they’re keeping secrets.

Take my hand.

There’s a clearing ahead,

soft grass,

wildflowers,

moonlight spilling silver

across your bare shoulders.

I want you there.

Not hurried.

I want the slow version of you.

Your boots abandoned by the blanket. Your hair falling loose.

My fingers finding yours

before they ever dare

find anything else.

I want to lie beside you

until conversation becomes whispers,

whispers become breath,

and I can feel your smile

against my mouth.

Let me kiss you slowly enough

that you forget

we came here for anything else.

Let my hands learn

the warmth of your waist,

the curve of your back,

the little shiver

when my lips find your neck.

And when you pull me closer,

God.

Let the whole forest hear

what restraint sounds like

when it finally breaks.

The creek can keep running.

The crickets can keep singing.

The moon can turn its face away.

I’ll only be watching you.

Your flushed cheeks.

Your tangled hair.

Your fingers curled into my shirt.

That look in your eyes

when wanting stops pretending

it isn’t hungry.

Stay beneath these trees with me.

Let the night grow warm around us.

Let my mouth make you forget

every sensible reason

we should walk back toward the road.

And if thunder rolls somewhere distant,

kiss me harder.

Let heaven spend the entire night

trying to make

a louder sound

than us.