We learn it slowly—
how not to
rush
the moment into confession.
Your hand pauses as if listening
to the air,
as if the body must be asked
before it is known.
There is a rule here:
nothing taken,
everything received.
We stand close enough for heat
to remember itself,
for breath
to change its mind, for silence
to grow attentive.
Touch becomes intention, not claim—
a held note
that refuses
to collapse into sound.
What we practice is restraint,
and in it, a deeper ache:
the exquisite order
of wanting
and waiting
and not turning away.
Even the dark holds
its shape when we are careful.
Photo credits: Pinterest
Posted for Open Link Night #398 @dVerse Poets Pub
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