I don’t wish for you to be my sanctuary, my place of rest—
No, I crave you as a wanderer, a stranger in my soul,
For I long for that thrill, that pulse of uncertainty—
The tremor in my bones when I wonder if this will be the last time
I hold you, see you, hear your voice in the dark.
I adore that sharp ache, the bittersweet pain
Of knowing you might slip away, like sand through my fingers—
The delicate terror that you’ll vanish, leaving only the shadow
Of where we paused, never to return.
Though this ache flares rarely—once, twice at most—
It grips me hard, a sensation I can’t abandon.
I’ve become enslaved to this longing—
Not unlike the way I’m ensnared by the thought of you.
Comfort is a numbing force; home has rendered me
Too safe, too still, where my dreams blur and fade.
But with you, every nerve is on fire, every thought electric,
My mind races, spins, exhausts itself only to find
An endless road of desire still ahead.
You’re chaos wrapped in beauty—devastation that feels divine,
An otherworldly being who tore my heart to shreds
And vanished, a celestial exile, orbiting somewhere far beyond reach.
To those who yearn for warmth and belonging, this must be madness—
For here I stand, wishing not for you to be mine,
But for you to remain distant, elusive, untamed.
