FLESH by Miguel
An aching prayer in skin. His touch doesn’t conquer—it worships. In “FLESH,” I am both altar and offering, called not to be consumed, but felt deeply. He doesn’t just want me—he reveres me. It’s the tension of knowing my softness is sacred, that desire can be holy. In our collision, there is devotion. A dance of body and soul, where love is not in the taking, but in the trembling pause before.
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