I move through crowds of faces, hands in hands,

soft laughter rising like the tide at dusk.

Each meeting—pleasant, light, a drifting dance,

each kiss a spark that fades before it flames.

Their lips are warm, their touch a fleeting thrill,

yet none have stirred the roots beneath my ribs.

The press of hands, the whispered, breathless sighs—

all lovely, yet they do not linger long.

And then, like dawn stretched slow across the sky,

she enters—quiet, careful, eyes that hold

a depth I do not rush to understand.

Her voice is low, a song not meant to swell.

She lets me near, but only so, then stills.

Her lips have brushed mine once, then once again—

a kiss like something left upon the wind,

a ghost of warmth, a promise yet to bloom.

She does not lean, nor pull, nor chase, nor flee,

but walks with steady steps beside her past,

a shadow lingering just beyond her reach.

She needs her time, a space where she can breathe.

And so, between the nights of other lips,

between the kisses given, taken, lost,

I wait for hers to come unchained, unbound,

to meet me where the waiting turns to fire.