Some gestures just repeat, with no clear explanation: like fixing up your collar, or a furrowed brow's vibration. We move in quiet lines, in ways no one detects, where shadows greet each other before we interconnect. To hint at a gesture is not quite the same. Some sign their quiet treaties without a touch or name. And your gesture strikes through me like someone who knows how far they can travel without burning, or getting too close. I’m already past the line of your gesture, where desire waits, turning into shade. You play with the edge of what's allowed, while I learn to stay... and not invade. Some skin stays remembered though nothing took place. Sometimes fingers speak truths that silence won't face. And then life goes on as if words never slipped close to the border that made my voice trip. You return to your rhythm, as if nothing was left. But in me, poems tremble— compliments never confessed. I’m already past the line of your gesture, where desire waits, turning into shade. You play with the edge of what's allowed, while I learn to stay... and not invade. Only your gesture remains, still quietly showing, and my laughter responds, hiding what I'm not showing. And I’m left with that moment when your eyes catch mine, and leave me there wondering what's left unsaid, lost in time. If one day you decide, no need for words or plans— just push that door that’s long been ajar by hand. You keep teasing me with your gesture, where my longing turns to shade and waits. And I stay, just hoping for the moment when it’s you… who opens the gates.
