Under His Skin

I think of him most
when the room goes dark—
when desire loses its manners
and begins to speak
in its native tongue.

His tattoos haunt me.

I want to trace them slowly,
one black line at a time,
with the kind of touch
that makes a body confess
what the mouth refuses.

I imagine the heat of him,
his breath against my neck,
his hands teaching my skin
how hunger becomes prayer.

There is something cruel
about wanting a man
I cannot have—
how the mind undresses
what the heart cannot touch,
how every forbidden thing
grows more beautiful at night.

He does not know
how often I have held him
inside a thought,
how many times I have pulled him close
and let the darkness
finish what I started.

I want to know
where the ink ends.

I want to know
what sound he makes
when wanting finally hurts.

But he remains untouched—
all shadow, all distance,
a beautiful wound
I keep pressing
just to feel it burn.