There is a moment before he kisses her
that has always felt more intimate than the kiss itself.

That fraction of a second when he is close enough to feel,
when his breath is already warm against her skin,
but he has not yet closed the distance between them.

Sometimes his hand rests against her face,
sometimes his fingers settle beneath her chin,
and sometimes there is nothing holding her there
except the certainty that she is not going anywhere.

Her body knows what is coming before his mouth ever touches hers.

Her breathing changes, her pulse quickens,
and every thought that occupied her only seconds ago disappears.

Everything inside her becomes strangely still
while everything beneath her skin comes alive.

She could move forward and take what she already knows is coming,
but she doesn’t.

There is something delicious about letting him take that last inch,
about looking into his eyes and knowing exactly what he wants
without either of them needing to say a word.

It isn’t hesitation.

It is anticipation.

It is the quietest form of surrender she knows.

There, in that tiny, unbearable space between them,
she is still entirely untouched
and somehow already consumed.

Then he closes the distance.

His mouth finds hers, the waiting finally breaks,
and the world that disappeared around them begins moving again.

But sometimes she thinks the part she craves most
is still that final second before.

When his lips are almost hers,
when she knows exactly what is coming,
when she could close the distance herself but doesn’t.

She waits.

And lets him decide when almost becomes a kiss

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