I saw you today,
close enough to feel the air shift,
too far to touch.
My pulse stuttered —
recognition without permission.

The body remembers
what the heart tries to forget.
It aches where it shouldn’t,
burns where it can’t.
Every nerve reaching for something
I have the right to want,
but only in private —
never in public.

I hold still.
Pretend I don’t feel the pull.
Restraint is its own kind of devotion,
and I’ve become fluent in denial.

My body whispers, move.
My mind commands, stay.
My breath trembles between them,
a prayer neither will answer.

You pass by,
and I remain —
half heat,
half discipline,
wholly undone
by what I can’t touch.

© Wynter Rayne 2025. All rights reserved.