SaraYou came to the edge with your shoulder bare,
with a name that fit like a borrowed flame.
I did not ask what brought you there—
desire never carries its name.
The bed was quiet with ancient law,
the sheets held still like a waiting psalm.
We did not break, we did not draw—
we trembled there, too wise for calm.
Your mouth was close, but not for mine,
your breath turned salt before it spoke.
We knew the line, we knew the sign—
the body bends, but not to broke.
You touched like someone reading Braille,
but skipped the page where I begin.
My thigh confessed, my voice went pale,
and still you would not enter in.
The heat was more than heat allows,
it sang beneath the quiet skin.
No vow was made, no sacred house—
but still I burned, and burned within.
The skin remembers what the soul forgets:
that union is a borrowed lie.
We were not lovers, not regrets—
just hunger kneeling toward the sky.
And oh, the ache of being near
and never quite allowed to fall—
it made the flesh a holy seer,
it made the silence more than all.
So take the night, and not the light,
take the breath, but not the prayer.
I’ll stay a wound you do not write—
a doorway open
to your
air.
