It lives in the space between two breaths,
in the moment your fingers almost touch something
—or someone—
you’re not sure you’re allowed to want.
A longing for presence.
A quiet hunger from within.
It is the tension of almost,
the sweetness of not yet,
the delicate tremor of soon.
It isn’t loud.
It isn’t frantic.
It is a slow, deliberate ache,
a gentle heat beneath the skin,
lingering where desire and possibility meet