Close Enough to Burn

We never meet where we can be seen.

That’s how it starts.

A habit disguised as confidence.

A glance held a second too long

because no one is watching.

Your voice changes when you speak to me.

Not louder—

lower.

Careful.

As if each word has learned

what it must not confess.

There is language we only use

in passing.

Eyes that linger.

Hands that stop short of contact

but remember the shape they didn’t take.

We stand in doorways.

Hallways.

The quiet margins of rooms

meant for other purposes.

Everywhere becomes charged

because nowhere is allowed.

I carry you with me

in places you will never enter.

Under my skin.

In the pause before sleep.

In the discipline it takes

not to reach for what would undo me.

You know this too.

I see it in the way you leave first.

In how you never say my name

when someone else is close enough to hear.

What makes it unbearable

is not what we imagine doing—

it’s the restraint.

The shared control.

The way desire sharpens

when it must stay hidden

to survive.

We are experts at almost.

At stopping.

At pretending this is temporary.

But being this close

has its own danger.

Heat without release.

Want without permission.

Some things don’t need to be touched

to leave a mark.

Some fires burn brightest

when they’re never allowed

to spread.