You touch me,
like a man who has already studied
the fault lines under my skin.
Slow,
unhurried,
so certain.
I will soften for you,
the moment you decide
to claim that space.
You move with the patience
of someone who understands:
hunger does not need to be rushed,
only revealed.
Each gesture deliberate,
a slow conquest.
Your knuckles,
your breath,
marking out the country
you intend to inhabit.
When you tip my chin upward
with a single finger,
not forceful,
just steady,
just sure.
My body opens instinctively,
as if it has been rehearsing
this exact surrender
for years.
The room erases itself.
Time folds inward,
quiet as a held breath.
And your mouth finds mine
with the focus of a man
who strips the world down
to one undeniable truth:
Desire is a language
best spoken
at this distance.
Mouth to mouth,
pulse to pulse.
And God,
the way I answer you.
© 2025
Oh! This is good.
Thank you, Atticus… I’m really glad it spoke to you.
Very very good.💋
Thank you, Peter… that’s really kind.
I like how your poem methodically draws the reader in. Perhaps time management is what separates the men from the boys. There is a difference between a kiss and a lip service. Desire is a language…very uniquely true.
Thank you, Angel. I’m glad the pacing spoke to you. Intention matters… It’s its own kind of language.
Passionately penned, CG. Excellent write with many layers my friend. This one is more than meets the eye. Nicely done. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian. Your eye for the layers means a lot to me. Grateful for you.
subtle and vulnerable – I love your rhythm, Curly. Harriet -Jacqui xx
Thank you, Harriet‑Jacqui. Your kindness sits softly with me.
Ah, that’s such a lovely way of putting it! Thank YOU!