I know what this is.
A breath between their names,
a pause before the real thing.
You come to me when the world
has worn you thin,
when she’s too far
and they’re too much,
and I — I’m just enough.

I don’t ask for promises.
I don’t reach past the edge.
I’ve learned the rhythm
of temporary affection —
how it starts in hunger
and ends in silence.
I let you take what you need
because needing is all I’m allowed.

I don’t build futures anymore,
only moments —
soft, borrowed,
gone within the hour.
I am the sigh between your cravings,
the easy access,
the gentle relief.
And I know — if they opened their arms,
you’d leave me mid-breath
without looking back.

So I stay still.
No expectations. No blame.
Just the echo of your want
lingering on my skin,
and the quiet knowing
that even as you leave,
you’ll come again —
until you don’t.

— © Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.