The Promise My Eyes Made — And Her Wrist Remembered
I sit in my boxers, thoroughly fed up with today’s eccentric global rotation. Too many weak opinions. Too much recycled pain. I’m ready to declare war on the sun for rising again.
Then she walks in.
And I remember why I haven’t burned it all down yet.
The way her hips rise to meet her waist — not obscene, not loud, just… sacred geometry. That slight gap between the gods and the damned — the one that’s brought down emperors, soldiers, and men with last names carved in history.
I notice it.
Not with hunger. With reverence.
I’ve known her longer than I’ve known peace. More moon phases than I have collector’s bottles. And still — I want to taste the parts she hides in decency, the regions baptized so she could walk among the unworthy without burning them alive.
Men like me don’t break under temptation. We break for meaning. We were raised with conviction — and it didn’t leave us just because the internet got louder.
Anyway. I digress.
She doesn’t say a word. Just turns toward the bedroom — and reaches for my wrist.
That’s all it takes.
Not a command. Not a performance.
Just a silent reminder that I made a promise with my eyes the moment she crossed the room.
Now I go to keep it — and remind God why He gave us skin.
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