The Ache of Him

It starts with the way he stands—
like gravity knows him
but hasn’t won.
Like the room bends
to the bones of his body
and I do, too.

There is something in his hands.
Not softness.
Not cruelty.
But the kind of power
that knows exactly what it’s holding
when it touches skin.

I watch his throat
when he swallows.
Watch the flex
of tendon and tension
like prayer
like promise
like pressure.

He laughs
and my knees forget
what they’re for.

He moves—
and it isn’t fair.

His body is a dare
I haven’t accepted
but already lost.

I want—
not in metaphor.
Not in poetry.
But in sweat.
And breath.
And the hour between
almost
and already.

I want
his weight.
His scent.
The heat of his mouth
unmaking mine.

I want
everything he hasn’t offered—
and all of it
slow.