May house studio
The midnight air was cool silk against my feverish skin as I stepped into the moon-drenched garden, the silver light pooling in the hollow of my collarbone. A restless energy hummed beneath my surface, a need for touch that the quiet night seemed to understand. My fingers, trembling slightly, traced a path over the soft fabric covering my chest, a gentle pressure seeking the frantic rhythm of my heart. I let my head fall back, eyes closed, drinking in the scent of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine as a deep, shuddering sigh escaped my lips. The world narrowed to the feel of my own hesitant exploration, a quiet conversation between my body and the hushed darkness. Every whispered touch was a question, and the rising warmth within me was its ardent, wordless reply. A tension, sweet and aching, began to coil deep in my core, tightening with every passing second. The distant stars blurred as a single, hot tear traced a path down my temple, born of overwhelming sensation. Then, a release, not violent but profound, like a held breath finally set free, leaving my limbs weak and my spirit cleansed. I stood there, cradled by the moonlight, utterly spent and perfectly, peacefully whole.
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