I’ve never touched him—
not in dream, not in dusk.
But still, something in me
rises at the thought.

Not lust, not sin,
just that aching sweetness
of wanting to be near
and not hidden.

At dawn,
when the air still holds its breath,
I sit where the sun first finds the floor—
and I let it touch me.
As if that were allowed.
As if I were.

There is no thunder.
No voice naming me wrong.
Only this soft, indifferent miracle—
light arriving
as though nothing about me needs changing.

I’ve prayed like this:
with hands open,
never asking for permission
to feel what I feel,
but hoping
that being honest
might still count as praise.

I’ve heard silence
louder than sermons.
I’ve learned to read approval
in the way the sky does not flinch.

If love ever comes to me,
let it come like this:
slow, golden,
not ashamed of itself.

And if it doesn’t—
if I stay a witness only,
never a name in someone else’s mouth—
then let me still be full
of light.

Let me still be someone
the morning chooses to touch.