The feeling is alive.
Not fading.
Not waiting its turn.
It moves when you move,
stirs when your name crosses my mind,
settles into me like it belongs there.

You are still here.
That is the cruelty of it.

I carry this while I listen to you speak,
while I answer carefully,
while I keep my voice steady
and my wanting invisible.
Every word I choose is shaped
by what I refuse to confess.

Nothing about this is distant.
It is immediate.
It presses against my ribs when you are near,
tightens when you touch me casually,
as if unaware of what restraint costs.

I do not long for you from afar.
I hold myself back in real time.
I feel the weight of what I know
and the discipline of not reaching for it.

This feeling does not ache sweetly.
It dominates quietly.
It reminds me who I am with you
and who I am not allowed to be.

I do not grieve it,
because grief would require an ending.
There is none.
Only control.
Only silence.
Only the constant decision
to leave the most dangerous truth
exactly where it is.

Unspoken does not mean unfelt.
It means contained.
It means living every moment beside you
with something alive in my chest
that is never given permission to speak,
but refuses to die.

And tonight, like every night,
it is still here.

© Wynter Rayne 2026. All Rights Reserved.