The air calls softly, a lover's breath across the neck's dulcet arc.
"I am here," it sighs, echoes across uncharted valleys... forever
trapped in circles, in spirals reformed yet unchanged,
pressed against skin, as night wraps its fingers tight, oh tender air, hold me.
Your caress is memory, repressed but eminent, bubbling to the surface,
an irresistible force linking lips long desiring the same
cadence, a dance written before we knew the steps.
The twilight is ours, painted in shades of breath and heartbeats echoing.
Locked in cycles—hearts move, but lips can't help relaying the song, composed by wind.
Gossamer whispers tell us secrets, of promises forgotten yet known,
of every sigh gentler than the last, every longing curled
within this atmospheric embrace,
as eternal as lovers joined in ambient ecstasy, air... sweet air.
Rapture lies in your path, unyielding.
So, let us dream beneath these veils of saturation,
let every breath remind us of the rhythm, relentless,
an infinite loop—linear,
yet romantic in its own way.
We breathe, we live, we love, we circle endlessly again—yet always anew.