Orgasm

A tremor through the silent night,

a whispered heat that climbs the spine—

the body’s map, a lit cascade,

where shadow bleeds to gold and time

unfurls like a rose in reverse,

petals peeling toward the sun.

The air grows thick with unspoken

languages—lush, primal, undone.

The horizon swells with gathered rain,

a moment suspended, stretched, then—

fractured light. A breath undone.

The earth remembers how to breathe,

spilling its seeds of heat and ache,

a thousand stars in a sigh, unsewn

from the loom of the dark.

Before, the quiet map of ordinary hours;

now, the body hums a hymn of dust and flame.

The pulse of tides, the throb of roots,

a rhythm older than a name.

The moon unspools its silver thread

through veins turned rivers, flooding home—

a wave that knows no shore, yet finds it,

a fire that burns without a form.

It lingers—not a thing, but a becoming—

the world remade in the language of trembling.