Something about the way you use a semi-colon feels like you’ve just grabbed my ass. There’s something about your ellipsis that takes my breath away. That parenthesis is the convex of hips along which your hands run. Your comma, just so. Just there. The pause of locked eyes. The half-breath before you ease into me. That exclamation mark is the taste of your lips, the burn of your fingers scoring my skin. The aching ampersand. Contiguous territories of your hand & lips & eyelids & skin & breath & heat. And heat. And heat. And that dash, the gasp worn by parted lips.
A paragraph ends. Silent spaces. A lazy arm across your breast, fingers stir. Your skin rises in anticipation.
We begin again.