ANTICIPATION

The best arousal is not in touch,

but in the way your silence speaks.

His eyes beg softly for a kiss

you smile, and let the moment leak

like honey held above his lips,

but never given. Not just yet.

You let your body write a script

that says: you’ll earn what you don’t get.

The wait is sacred. The first sigh

in the slow, smoldering symphony.

Most rush, craving lips, claiming skin,

but not you. You are mystery.

You master the dance of restraint,

not to tease, but to transcend.

Desire grows in quiet rooms

where breath alone begins to bend

the will of men who want too much,

too soon, too fast, without the climb.

You don’t meet passion’s sprinting pace

you slow it, stretch it out through time.

And the longer you delay your touch,

the more your touch will cost him. Dear.

Good loving starts before his hands

have ever thought to draw you near.

There is a kiss that brands the soul

done right, it ruins him for all

the mouths that follow, all too loud,

too rushed, too easy to recall.

This isn’t love. This is a mark,

a lesson whispered in his veins.

Stop the moaning meant to please

let silence carry deeper strains.

Your sound is not performance, no

it is a blade, a spell, a vow.

Let him watch you like a flame

he dares not touch. Not yet. Not now.

This is power, soft and true:

to make him ache, and make him wait.

To know the art of holding back

is to command the hands of fate.