I do not know when I began
to yearn for things beyond my reach—
but you,
you were always more than touch.
You were scent upon the stillness of wind,
a warmth left in sheets I never laid beside.
Your absence,
carved in the shape of desire,
fills the room like something never exhaled.

Your hair—
not merely silk,
but the hush of time sliding past.
Strands that fold
as if they understand
how everything we love
will one day return to silence.
And still,
how beautiful the descent.

Your eyes—
they do not just reflect me;
they question me.
What am I—
beneath the wanting?
A flicker, a soul dressed in passing dust,
trembling beneath your gaze
as if caught in the pause
between two infinite nothings.
But what a place to burn.

And your mouth,
a slow promise of unraveling—
not loud, never crude—
but a heat
that could teach gods to doubt themselves.
Here, where language breaks,
I remember
the body was made to forget.

The curve of you
is not just form—
it is form become defiance.
Your hips,
your back’s quiet arc—
a question I want to answer with my hands.
There is theology in the way you stretch,
poetry in the stillness
where your body forgets the air.

And yet it is not just the flesh—
not the candlelit softness of breast or thigh,
but the way your presence
makes the world seem more deliberate.
I do not want you for the body alone,
but for the gravity inside it—
the pull that lives under your skin,
the thunder behind your quiet.
And in your silence, I nearly understood.

It is your breath on my skin—
carving shape into nothingness.
It is your being, your essence
reminding mine
that we are brief,
and yet,
how we blaze.

Love,
if this is longing,
then let me hunger forever.
Let me never be whole,
let me remain split open,
a wound the light keeps entering.
Because—
even in distance,
you are the most beautiful ache
that taught me how to be unfinished.