Movements of the sacred ache
I. The Knowing
There’s something I have always known,
in my hips,
in my breath,
in the heat that wakes me when no one’s there.
I was made to be met.
Not claimed.
Not chased.
Met.
I do not want fingertips that search,
I want hands that remember.
Mouth that finds its home at the small of my back without needing a map.
I crave rhythm,
but not performance.
The kind of synchrony that comes when no one’s pretending not to need.
That’s a hunger I don’t shrink from anymore.
A pull I don’t flinch at.
I know the shape of what I want.
And it lives between my thighs,
behind my ears,
along the arch of my spine where someone like you
was always meant to rest.
II. The Imagining
I feel you before you arrive.
The heat in the room changes.
The air leans heavier on my chest.
When you speak,
it’s not your voice,
it’s what it does to my knees.
You touch me like music.
Hold me like silence.
Kiss me with an acceptance that comes after the moan.
I close my eyes
and there you are,
hips locked into mine like a heartbeat,
neck tipped back, breath painting down my shoulder.
No words.
Just sound.
The kind that builds when two people stop holding back.
You don’t ask.
You press.
I don’t explain.
I open.
The bed, the floor, the breath between us,
everything becomes an altar.
And the wolves begin to sing,
not in warning,
but in worship.
III. The Quench
Now you’re here.
Not imagined.
Not arriving.
Here.
Inside the breath, inside the moment, inside me.
The storm we kept at the edge of the room finally breaks open.
It rolls down my thighs,
spills from my mouth,
trembles at the base of my spine.
You look at me like you’ve waited lifetimes to be allowed this close.
And I let you all the way in.
There’s no holding back.
No guiding hands.
We move like we’ve done this before,
in every body we were born into before this one.
You move deeper,
and I stop thinking.
I start burning.
The sound of skin meeting skin.
The gasp before the cry.
The collapse after the quake.
We give it all.
And when we’re done,
we don’t leave.
We don’t speak.
We stay in the heat.
Still tangled.
Still pulsing.
Still holy.
And the wolves?
They sing louder now.
Because they know we found the thing worth howling for.
-Nnenna
Nene's Corner 