A Place I Cannot Put My Hands

There is something cruel
about recognizing someone
you cannot reach for.

Not love, exactly.

Something earlier.
Something hungrier.

A spark held too long
between two pairs of eyes,
the kind that makes the room disappear
without either of us moving.

You stand there
all quiet gravity,
ink disappearing beneath your sleeves,
a man who has learned
how to take up space
without asking anyone
to notice.

But I notice.

God,
I notice.

The way you carry strength
without performing it.

The softness buried
beneath all that certainty.

The things you don't say
because somewhere along the way
you learned that being wanted
was safer
than being known.

And maybe that is where
the trouble begins.

Because I don't just want you.

I see you.

I see the man beneath the tattoos,
beneath the steadiness,
beneath whatever beautiful armor
you've mistaken for skin.

And sometimes
I think you know.

There is a moment
when your eyes find mine
and something in you
goes still.

Not fear.

Recognition.

As though I've touched a place
I was never given permission
to put my hands.

We don't speak of it.

We are good.

We keep our distance.

We let the forbidden thing
remain unnamed
between us.

But longing is patient.

It doesn't need a bed.
It doesn't need a kiss.
It doesn't even need hope.

Sometimes
all it needs
is the possibility.

Your eyes on mine.

One second too long.

And the unbearable knowledge
that somewhere
in another version of this life,

I would not have to wonder
what your hands would feel like
when you finally stopped
trying not to reach for me.