DEFINING EMOTIONS
There is a poem for every emotion
Saturday, 23 August 2025
DRAWN TO YOU
Monday, 28 July 2025
RESTRAINT
Sunday, 8 June 2025
TRACES OF ME
He came to me
like men do,
charming, sure,
but with eyes that didn’t know
how to kneel.
He thought love was polite,
something served with flowers
and hesitation.
But I don’t bloom for men
who need permission
to crave.
I didn’t ask.
I took.
I gave him rules,
not for cruelty,
but for clarity.
Because some hearts
don’t beat
until they’re bound.
He wanted to save me,
but I was never lost.
I’ve walked through my own fire,
and now I light it
for the ones who can stand the heat.
He trembled,
but he stayed.
Let me teach him
how surrender
isn’t weakness
when it’s given, not taken.
In my world,
love has weight.
And I carried him
on the edge of pain and pleasure
until he finally understood:
devotion doesn’t beg,
it offers.
I traced every inch of him
like a map
to a country
that once feared being seen.
He asked why I chose him.
I didn’t.
He earned me
with every soft confession,
every scar he let me kiss
without hiding.
In the silence of rope and silk,
he learned how loud love can be.
And no
I never bent for him.
But he rose for me.
Again and again.
Stronger.
Wilder.
Freer.
He is mine.
Not by leash,
but by choice.
All shades of him,
and not one I feared.
Because in the end,
it was my hands
that taught him how to feel.
Saturday, 17 May 2025
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.