You left,
but desire never learned to follow you.
It stayed—
coiled in the dark,
listening.
A Spanish guitar opens the night,
its body warm as skin remembered,
its strings drawn tight
the way I once held you
when summer refused to cool us.
Every note is deliberate,
slow enough to savor,
sharp enough to ache.
I still know how you moved to sound—
hips answering rhythm,
breath slipping out of time.
You leaned into music
the way you leaned into me,
as if wanting were a language
your body spoke fluently.
Those nights were endless.
Windows open.
Sweat tasting of salt and moonlight.
My hands learning the precise tension
that made you respond—
not hurried,
never rushed,
each touch a chord
pulled just long enough
to make you tremble.
Years have passed,
yet my body remains practiced.
It remembers the pause at your waist,
the way your back arched
when silence grew too full.
Memory presses against me now
like heat without flame,
like music waiting to be played again.
The guitar does not mourn—
it seduces.
Each vibration lingers,
wood humming under pressure,
strings begging to be drawn tighter.
I listen the way one listens
with closed eyes and parted breath,
letting sound do
what time cannot.
I have touched others,
but none have stayed
so vividly inside me.
None have returned so easily
at the sound of a single chord.
You arrive without warning,
undressed by memory,
moving the way you always did—
slow, confident, inevitable.
Longing is not sorrow.
It is desire that refuses to fade.
It is the body responding
before the mind can intervene.
It is a song
etched into wood and string,
played again and again
because it still knows
exactly how to touch me.
You are gone.
But the music keeps finding you.
And I—
I keep listening,
heated, awake,
still tuned
to the way you once made me feel.
#romance #poetry #lovepoem #longing #missingyou #erotica #spanishguitar
Dec 23, 2025
Dec 23, 2025 at 11:22 AM UTC
You left,
but desire never learned to follow you.
It stayed—
coiled in the dark,
listening.
A Spanish guitar opens the night,
its body warm as skin remembered,
its strings drawn tight
the way I once held you
when summer refused to cool us.
Every note is deliberate,
slow enough to savor,
sharp enough to ache.
I still know how you moved to sound—
hips answering rhythm,
breath slipping out of time.
You leaned into music
the way you leaned into me,
as if wanting were a language
your body spoke fluently.
Those nights were endless.
Windows open.
Sweat tasting of salt and moonlight.
My hands learning the precise tension
that made you respond—
not hurried,
never rushed,
each touch a chord
pulled just long enough
to make you tremble.
Years have passed,
yet my body remains practiced.
It remembers the pause at your waist,
the way your back arched
when silence grew too full.
Memory presses against me now
like heat without flame,
like music waiting to be played again.
The guitar does not mourn—
it seduces.
Each vibration lingers,
wood humming under pressure,
strings begging to be drawn tighter.
I listen the way one listens
with closed eyes and parted breath,
letting sound do
what time cannot.
I have touched others,
but none have stayed
so vividly inside me.
None have returned so easily
at the sound of a single chord.
You arrive without warning,
undressed by memory,
moving the way you always did—
slow, confident, inevitable.
Longing is not sorrow.
It is desire that refuses to fade.
It is the body responding
before the mind can intervene.
It is a song
etched into wood and string,
played again and again
because it still knows
exactly how to touch me.
You are gone.
But the music keeps finding you.
And I—
I keep listening,
heated, awake,
still tuned
to the way you once made me feel.
#romance #poetry #lovepoem #longing #missingyou #erotica #spanishguitar
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