I press my palms to the glass of night,

watching the silhouette of what I want—

a flame that flickers just beyond

the reach of reason,

but I do not move.

Your name is a storm I mouth in silence,

each syllable a thread

pulled tight across my ribs.

I feel you—

not in touch,

but in the ache of absence

that blooms like bruises under skin.

The moon is complicit,

spilling light across my restraint

as if to say, go.

But I stay.

Still.

Stillness is its own kind of fever.

I’ve taught my body

the grammar of denial,

each breath a sentence I do not finish.

There is art in holding back—

in standing at the edge of a kiss

and tasting only the idea of salt.

Longing is a slow fire—

it doesn’t consume,

only warms the cage

where my wildest yes

paces.

But oh—

in the cathedral of my thoughts,

you burn like stained glass:

beautiful, untouchable,

casting colors on the floor of what I cannot have.