more

He thinks I love the man the world sees.

But it’s the broken pieces

he lets slip by accident

that undo me.

The ones I was never meant to witness.

When his strength goes quiet

and his tenderness wakes

when his hands forget how to be hard.

When they move up my thighs slowly,

not taking, not claiming,

just learning where I hold my breath.

They touch like they’re asking permission

from something deeper than skin,

like they are learning a language

only a starved man would know

And I feed him.

I have seen the cold, fractured look in his eyes,

the one that belongs to memories

he never carries into the light.

I don’t say it out loud,

but I try to tell him anyway—

through my mouth against his,

through my hand resting soft on his chest,

through the way I lean in,

aching, shaking,

asking without words

for more.

I let him think I’m asking for this.

More body.

More heat.

More night.

But I choose silence

because it costs less than hope.

What I want

is the tenderness he gives without meaning to—

the pause,

the quiet,

the moment his guard slips

and stays slipped.

I want every piece of him—

the broken ones,

the ones he hides,

the ones he thinks make him unlovable.

I want him to give them to me.

I want him to break only with me.

I want him to want this of me.

But I don’t ask.

I wait.

I tell myself

that witnessing him

is the same as being chosen.