His First-Person Projection
I imagine she sees me.
Not just the lens,
but the man behind it—
the one who hesitates
each time she moves
like a question I’m too afraid to ask.
I tell myself
she notices the silence between us,
the way my words
circle her like smoke,
never quite touching.
She wears her darkness
like armor—lace and leather,
ritual and restraint.
Not to ******
but to protect.
And yet,
I hope she wonders.
I hope she feels the pull
beneath my coded words,
beneath the careful distance.
I imagine her asking:
What if I let him see me?
Not the gothic icon,
but the girl beneath—
the one who wants
to be wanted
without being claimed.
Nov 5, 2025
Nov 5, 2025 at 6:52 PM UTC
His First-Person Projection
I imagine she sees me.
Not just the lens,
but the man behind it—
the one who hesitates
each time she moves
like a question I’m too afraid to ask.
I tell myself
she notices the silence between us,
the way my words
circle her like smoke,
never quite touching.
She wears her darkness
like armor—lace and leather,
ritual and restraint.
Not to ******
but to protect.
And yet,
I hope she wonders.
I hope she feels the pull
beneath my coded words,
beneath the careful distance.
I imagine her asking:
What if I let him see me?
Not the gothic icon,
but the girl beneath—
the one who wants
to be wanted
without being claimed.
Fourth in a series of poetic reflections on desire, distance, and the art of seeing
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