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.