He rises with fire in his chest,
a god cloaked in gold—
bold, burning,
never asking permission to shine.

She lingers in hush,
a mistress of tides and secrets,
silver-skinned and distant,
glowing with borrowed ache.

They orbit want.
Never meant to touch—
but sometimes,
the universe flinches.

And for a breath,
the Sun tastes the Moon.

It is not a kiss.
It is a claiming.
It is shadow and heat
spilling over skin stretched too thin
to hold the weight of want.

She arches in light
not made for her,
bares her curves to his blaze—
and he, reckless,
scalds the darkness with devotion
he can never name in daylight.

They consume each other
in that stolen hush,
where gods forget their place
and gravity forgets its grip.

But time is cruel.

He must rise.
She must fall.
And all that remains
is the echo of eclipse—
the memory of being devoured
by a hunger etched in their souls.

© Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.