Stay. Don't Move. Let Me undress you to your soul.

Come here.

I want you close enough

that breathing becomes a negotiation,

close enough that the space between us

feels like a secret we're keeping from the room.

My hands find you in the low light,

one at your waist, one at your jaw,

tilting your face toward mine

the way you tilt a page toward lamplight,

wanting to read every word.

I don't kiss you yet.

I let my mouth hover at the corner of yours,

close enough to taste the anticipation,

watching your lips part

in that involuntary confession

that tells me everything.

There you are.

The real you.

The one beneath the composure.

I trace the line of your jaw

with one slow finger,

down your throat,

along your collarbone

,

watching your eyes go heavy

like a reader losing themselves

in a story they can't put down.

I walk you backward slowly,

no rush,

the whole night is ours

and I intend to use every hour of it.

Your back finds the wal

and I lean in,

not touching,

just presence,

just the heat of intention

radiating between us

like a held note.

My lips find your neck

and I feel you exhale everything,

every wall, every guard,

every careful thing you built

to keep men like me

at a careful distance.

It dissolves.

Just like that.

My hands learn the architecture of your body,

tracing every curve

the way a sculptor traces clay,

with reverence,

with purpose,

with the quiet understanding

that this is not something to rush through

but something to inhabit completely.

You pull me closer

and I resist,

pulling back just enough

to make you reach again,

because watching you want me

is its own exquisite poem

and I am not ready to finish reading it.

When I finally give you what you're reaching for,

it arrives slowly,

deliberately,

the way all things worth having do,

and you make a sound

so soft and unguarded

that I have to pause

just to hold it in the room a moment longer.

I whisper against your skin,

words meant only for this space,

this low-lit intimate geography

we've made between us,

and you answer not with words

but with the way your body

turns toward mine

like a flower toward the only light it knows.

We are past the point of pretending

this is anything other than what it is,

two people dismantling their distances,

choosing each other in the dark,

surrendering not out of weakness

but out of the rare courage

it takes to be fully seen,

fully wanted,

fully known.

And I intend to know you

completely.

Every verse.

Every whispered chapter.

Every breathless page

until dawn finds us

still unfinished,

still writing,

still surrendering

to the only thing

that ever made sense.