I am fluent in nuance,
innuendo,
things left unsaid.

The tension between
longing
and
desire
a language of restraint.

A glance across the room
that lingers,
brief enough to deny,
charged enough to betray.

Fingertips trace invisible lines,
mapping the space between,
breathing promises without sound,
a silent pull beneath stillness.

To the casual eye
nothing.
But below the surface,
something stirs,
a current pulling slow.

I know this language well.
It’s how silence leans,
how stillness tastes,
how timing teases.

More than a feeling.
Less than confession.
It lives in the heat
between impulse
and permission

the space where breath catches,
and fingers hold their secrets,
yet reveal them without words.

A dance of glances and paused moments,
where every hesitation feels like a promise,
and every look becomes an unread invitation.