I stand steady,
stone in the stream,
current breaking
but never breaking me.
My silence commands.
My presence
settles the room.
They lean in—
without knowing why.
Beneath,
a furnace hums.
The quiet masks
a hunger,
an ache not for peace
but for fire,
not for calm
but the storm
that could strip me bare.
I have carried restraint
as creed,
as bridle.
But I do not long
for the simple keeping of love.
I long to fall,
to be torn loose,
to be carried—
not standing
but swept.
And she—
when she comes—
will not ask.
She will strike,
and I will yield.
She will strike,
and I will open.
Stone broken,
river claimed,
breath taken,
breath returned.
I will fall—
and falling,
at last unmoored.
