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I want a partner who arrives
like rain at the window—
not to undo the storm in me,
but to sit beside it
without turning away.
Someone whose presence carries
the scent of petrichor:
wet pavement, dark earth,
and the strange relief
of a long-dry world receiving rain.
I want a Dom who asks first—
who learns the language of my limits
as carefully as my desires;
whose control begins in listening
and remains there.
In a scene,
I want anticipation measured gently—
the ache of almost,
the sacred pause before permission,
a wish withheld only
because we decided it together.
Outside the scene,
I want their attention to endure:
a message on a gray morning,
a remembered detail,
a birthday held carefully
in their memory.
Not a rescuer.
Not an owner of every part of me.
Only someone who chooses
to fulfill a few quiet wishes—
in play and in ordinary life—
and makes room for me
to choose them back.
And afterward,
while rain loosens its hands from the sky,
I want warmth, reassurance,
and a hand over mine—
proof that the storm has passed
but they have not.

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