You stepped from the shadows
outside my building.
I wasn’t sure.

You sat on my bed.
We watched Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.

Expectation—or the absence of it—
hung between us.
I wasn’t thinking of you.
Then gently,
you touched my face
and patted the space beside you.

“Come here,” you said.
And I fell into you.

I didn’t know if I’d see you again.
But in that moment, I wanted to.

I’ve never been
a one-night stand.
I can’t untangle sex from feeling—
not in my head.

My heart, my mind—
they hesitated.
But my body knew.
It softened next to you
in a way it never has.

There’s a moment—
sometimes breathless,
sometimes slick with sweat—
when I almost say your name
but don’t.

Can you feel how fragile it is?
As if I might shatter
into a thousand pieces.

I hold myself together—
the tension,
its unraveling in the air
above my bed—
it’s a gift.

My gift.
Please understand:
it’s rare.