Kiss them like you’re trying to memorize the shape of their soul. Fuck them like you’re both escaping a burning building and building a home. And then, when the world has gone quiet, kiss them again—slowly, deeply, richly—as if it were the first time and the last time all at once.
This is the architecture of great sex: not a climax, but a conversation. A call and response. A story told twice—once with urgency, once with awe.
That is the only religion worth practicing. End of content.
But not the perfunctory kind. Not the dry peck on a cheek or the distracted brush of lips while scrolling a phone. No—the kind that undoes you. The kind that starts at the mouth but travels down the spine like warm mercury.
