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it’s the heavy air between us in this library, thick with the scent of old paper and the sharp, metallic tang of an impending storm. i watch your pulse thrumming in the hollow of your throat while you pretend to read, and i know you can feel my eyes tracing the line where your shirt meets your skin.

i want to bridge that gap.

i want to feel the rough friction of your palms against the small of my back, pulling me into your heat until the wooden chair creaks under the weight of us. i want to taste the coffee and the desperation on your tongue.

forget the poetry. forget the "alone together."

i want the messy, breathless reality of you. i want to feel your teeth graze my shoulder, marking me as yours in the dim light of a desk lamp. i want your hands tangled in my hair, unravelling every careful thought i’ve ever had until all that’s left is the sound of your name catching in my throat.

to be loved is a comfort. but to be wanted like this—with a hunger that threatens to burn the whole room down—is the only thing that makes me feel alive.

don’t be gentle. i’ve had enough of gentle.

just be here. completely.

not with grand gestures, but with the quiet insistence of a storm at midnight, pressing against the window. a different kind of hunger.

it's in the way my fingers find the curve of your hip, a silent conversation beneath blankets. the warmth that blooms where our skin meets, an unwritten promise. the soft drag of your breath against my neck, a secret language only we understand.

every whispered word, every involuntary sigh, every tremor that runs through you when i trace the delicate line of your spine. these are the confessions i crave. the small, devastating truths.

to taste the salt on your skin after a long day, to feel the rhythm of your heart against my palm as the city sleeps outside. this is my church, my sanctuary.

intimacy is the silence between us that isn’t empty. it is sitting in the same room, doing different things, and feeling the tether of your presence like a physical weight against my side. "alone together." the safety of it.

i want the mundane worship.

i want to memorize the history written on your hands.

i want to know exactly how you take your coffee, not because it is important to the world, but because it is the most important data point in mine.

to be loved is to be seen. but to be intimate is to be seen ugly, to be seen tired, to be seen when you are cracking apart, and having someone sit next to you and say, "i am not going anywhere. rest here."

i don’t want to just hold your hand. i want to hold your peace. i want to be the quietest thing you keep.