In the quiet hours of longing,
I crave the tender weight of need—
to be worshipped like a sacred secret,
touched, explored, taken into an orbit
where passion is a promise, always kept.

Yet every dawn whispers a truth:
Men come as playful phantoms,
ephemeral and fleeting,
leaving traces of desire
that fade like stardust in the morning light.

I stand in the mirror of my yearning,
knowing that the day-to-day echoes
will never hold the consistency of devotion,
and in that solitude, I learn
the bittersweet art of self-embrace.

Even as fleeting shadows pass by,
I remain—a solitary fire
that burns for the beauty of being seen,
even if only by the transient glow
of a passing admirer.

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