The Magic of Six to Two

The Magic of Six to Two

You are my exquisite indulgence,
a microdose of wildfire,
just enough to dissolve me
without turning me to ash.

Six to two.
The holy rhythm of us.
A microdose of rapture
measured precisely to intoxicate
but never consume.

Eight hours of delicious surrender.
That’s all I can hold of you
without unraveling completely.

You arrive with your hypnotic magnetism,
fire laced with finesse,
spontaneity dressed in elegance.
You are wild and curated,
chaotic and refined,
a fever dream I taste in measured sips.

And I?
I am the one who savors.
Every glance, every teasing touch,
every flirtation across candlelit dinners
in foreign cities
where even the walls seem to ache with wanting.

In this time, this sacred capsule,
you lead me through seduction like a symphony.
We play in silk sheets and mirrored eyes,
a decadent world where nothing exists but pleasure.
No past. No future.
Only breath, scent, skin,
and the holy ritual of our dance.

She dances wildly,
abundantly,
in a field of sighs and soft moans,
an altar of sweat and sacred release.

We feast without hunger,
play without destination,
and when the clock strikes two,
you leave me full.

My appetite is complete.

You are a microdose of ecstasy,
never too much,
always just enough
to awaken every cell,
every pulse,
every forgotten prayer of the body.

And then it ends.
Just as it should.
I do not want more.
Not more of you,
not more time,
not even dreams.

Because more would blur the magic.
More would steal the sharpness of our ache,
the clarity of fulfillment
without longing.

You are not meant to spill into my days.
You are meant to erupt into me
and vanish,
leaving no residue
but bliss.

And so I keep our passion
measured,
contained,
in one exquisite serving
that feeds me fully.

Eight hours.
Never more.
And always,
enough.