Apr 21
i lean into the almost—
slow—so slow—
like a secret slipping from throat to thought
your words don’t sit—
they slide—
silk over skin, sin in syntax, a hush that rushes in
and i—
i follow the flow, the low glow, the yes-no of it
that rhythm that hits—then slips—then grips
god—
the way it lingers
not touch—no—
but that tremble-before-touch
that edge-of-breath
that ache that takes and remakes the shape of a moment
we hover there—
in the near, in the dear, in the dangerously clear
space where meaning melts
and metaphor moves like a mouth that knows
and i am—
undone, unspun, becoming someone
who feels too much
too close
too good
just from the way
you write