Desire has never arrived loudly.

It comes the way dusk does,
slow enough to pretend
I do not notice it,
certain enough to claim me anyway.

It begins with your voice,
with the weight of your attention,
with the impossible way
one look from you
can silence every room inside my mind.

I have imagined your hands
more times than I will ever confess.

Not because I crave touch alone,
but because I know they would arrive
with intention.
Nothing careless.
Nothing rushed.
Only the exquisite torment
of being known
one measured moment at a time.

There are nights
when I close my eyes
and swear I can feel you beside me.

My pulse betrays me.
My breath grows slower,
then quicker,
as though my body
has learned your language
without ever being taught.

You are the fire
that never asks permission to burn.

The quiet ache
beneath every composed smile.

The reason
ordinary moments
become dangerous,
because all it takes
is one thought of you
to turn restraint
into its own form of suffering.

If wanting were visible,
I would glow.

Every restrained word.
Every stolen glance.
Every goodbye
that leaves too much unsaid.

I wear them
like heat beneath my skin.

One day,
perhaps,
there will be no distance
between what I imagine
and what I am allowed.

Until then,

I will continue
to carry this beautiful torment.

To want you
with the kind of patience
only impossible things
ever seem to require.

And somehow,

to find that wanting you
is almost as intoxicating
as finally having you.

© 2026 Wynter Rayne. All rights reserved.