And I want it from your back, From the flower vertebrae, To collect the lip juices of the moon, And wild forest dreams. And I want to build a house. It smells like sandal trees. Come for a day and two together. To drink honey from your lips. And I want your moan in the night, intertwined with the rays of stars, With the aroma of incense, With a delicate smell of roses. And I want the pleasure of nectar, Wash off your fragile shoulders, And that love would warm us— Hotter than a hundred ovens. And I want to hug you So gently as soon as I can. But alas, I sometimes do not dare to Even raise my eyes to you.
# And I Want from Your Back I want from your back the weight of years— those heavy hours that bend the spine, the accumulated dusk of afternoons when you carried the day like a stone. I want the map of it: each scar where burden pressed its signature, the longitude of sleepless nights traced in the knots of muscle and nerve. I want to unload it all— not gently, but with the urgency of hands that know the mercy of release, the way a beast shakes off the snow. I want your shoulders to remember what lightness feels like, the old grammar of ease before the world learned your name. I want from your back the memory of when it was merely skin, before it became an atlas of everything you've borne for us. So let me take it— this weight, this weathered landscape— let me carry it for a while so you can stand straight again, so you can look up and remember the sky was never yours to hold.
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