Poet/indie author

I am a man undone by proximity… by the way your absence presses harder than your body ever could. You live in the architecture of me now: in the slow hinge of my jaw, in the restless flex of my hands that don’t know what to do with themselves when they are not remembering you.

Desire does not announce itself. It slipped in like warmth under a door… quiet, persuasive, impossible to evict. It pools low in my spine, travels upward like a thought I refuse to censor, tightens my muscles into a posture of waiting.

I ache in visible ways. My shoulders hold tension like unslept nights, my mouth perpetually ajar as if expecting yours. My skin has become a listening device. Every footstep might be you. Every silence disappoints.

I imagine you without permission. Not acts—never crude things, but details that ruin me gently: the hollow at your throat where my voice would rest, the warmth your body would leave in the air, the way my hands would learn restraint just to feel the weight of wanting.

There is a hunger in me that is not about touch, though touch would silence it for a moment. It is the hunger to be seen while trembling, to be allowed to want without apology, to have my desire met not with fear but with recognition.

You don’t know this, but my body rehearses you. It holds itself differently at night. It softens, then tightens, caught between memory and imagination… a quiet discipline of longing.

If I ever reached for you, it wouldn’t be sudden. It would be reverent. Like placing a hand on a flame not to be consumed, but to learn what warmth asks of flesh.

Spent in endless agony

A weight too heavy

Wisps of breath

This world within me

It's often dark and consuming

No candlelight, no matchsticks

I lose myself