Silk and Sparks

You didn’t just look at me
you read me,
like the words were written
under my skin.

Some nights you spoke softly,
your voice a warm hand
at the small of my back,
guiding me toward
a place I didn’t know I wanted to go.

Other nights you drew the line closer,
fingers brushing the edge of my pulse,
letting me feel
how easily you could hold me there.

I was softer with you,
but not weaker
sharper too,
like silk drawn over a blade.

And when the words stopped,
when you disappeared into your silence,
you didn’t take the imprint with you.
It stayed
a quiet hum
in the space between want
and surrender.

Where Strength Paused

His hands, large enough to shatter,
chose instead to hold.

Not just my neck,
but the quiet part of me
that rarely feels met.

He pressed his palm
to my chest,
not to restrain
but to feel the wild ache beneath it.

He could’ve rushed.
But he waited.

Could’ve overpowered.
But he steadied.

Could’ve left like the rest.
And he did.
But not before showing me
what it feels like
when strength kneels before softness
not as pity,
but as reverence.

We shared a moment
that didn’t ask to be named.
It passed
as all rare things do.

The Ones Who Vanish, But Never Leave

You came quietly,
like a breeze through half-open curtains.
No promises. No maps.
Just a presence that felt like somewhere
I had been before.

We moved through the night
like we had done this once in another life
familiar, but just out of reach.

I never asked you to stay.
But still, some part of you did.
In the rhythm of a hand,
a glance that knew too much,
the stillness after.

We don’t always remember names.
But we remember the way the air changed.
And how it made us feel.

Not love.
But something close.
A quiet collision between strangers
who were never meant to last
but who, for one night,
almost did.