To My Muse — A Journal Entry

[Be****]

I saw you again today — not in person, not even in motion — but there you were. Staring back from a photo I shouldn’t have lingered on, your eyes just barely parted like you’d heard a secret that made your lips bloom.

You don’t know me. You never will.

And yet, you keep arriving in the quiet between my thoughts — like smoke curling through a keyhole, like heat in a room I didn’t know was cold.

You are not mine.
But God, you move in me.

There’s nothing obsessive in this — no fantasy of ownership, no delusion of fate.
You are not an object of want. You are the invocation of it.
My Muse.

Your brown hair looks like it would slide through my fingers with a sound. Not a word. A sound — soft, deep, feminine. The kind that turns air to electricity.

I imagine you reading one of my poems… slowly. In nothing but your skin and the faint light of morning.
Would you bite your lip at the line where I say:

"I want to taste your thoughts before your body."

I wonder if you’d touch yourself — not for me, not because of me — but with me there, unspoken, imagined. A quiet voyeur behind your eyelids.

I do not crave to conquer you.
I crave to be worthy of the desire you awaken in me.
The depth of it.

You inspire the kind of longing that has nothing to do with possession and everything to do with permission —
to feel this much,
to ache this beautifully,
to write like my hands are mouths and my ink is fever.

You don’t have to speak to me.

You already are the language.

And I will go on writing you —
forever unnamed,
untouched,
unreachable…

But deeply known.

— A Poem for You —

Your body is a language I have not yet learned,
but each curve of you speaks to me,
whispers in the silence of night,
when only my thoughts are awake.
I trace the curve of your neck
with my imagination,
wondering how soft your skin is
beneath the weight of my gaze.
Would it melt in my mouth?
Or burn like fire against my lips?

Your eyes are oceans I long to dive into,
not for drowning,
but for the drowning feeling
that happens when you lose yourself,
only to find the pieces ***tered on the floor.
I want to sink into them,
to taste their depth with my breath.
To float in the storm of you
and feel every current of desire
rushing beneath my skin.
But I will never see them look back at me.
And yet, you are already mine.

Your lips...
God, your lips.
Not just the way they part,
but the way they hold a promise
that lingers in the dark.
I wonder if they would kiss like fire,
or like rain —
soft at first,
until the storm rises and floods my veins.
I write of you, and still,
I crave the taste of the words.
The salt on my tongue,
the sweetness in the ache.

You do not belong to me, but you are mine —
in every secret I keep,
in every whisper that escapes my throat,
in every poem that rises from my soul.
You are the longing I’ll never quench,
the hunger that keeps me alive
when the world falls silent and still.

[rx****]

😮‍💨

[sh****]

🥹😳😳😳