I want to speak to you,
not with the noise of language
but with the full weight of silence,
the kind that gathers between two people
who have nothing to prove
and everything to feel.
Let me speak to your thoughts
the way wind moves through tall grasses—
soft, insistent, without asking permission.
I do not want to merely talk with you—
I want to listen to you
the way rain listens to the earth,
falling not to drown but to nourish.
I want to walk with you
through the endless corridors of thought,
past forgotten doors and secret rooms
where childhood still lingers
and old sorrows breathe quietly in corners.
Let me visit those places with you—
places of the mind where fear sleeps,
places of the body where hunger lives,
places of the soul that no one else has seen.
And I want to love you—
not only with my body,
but with my questions,
my silences,
my longing to understand
the shape of your spirit
as it moves through this world.
I want to make love to you—
not once, not hurriedly,
but again and again
in every way a man can know a woman.
To your mind,
where the wild things are born—
your theories, your rage,
your strange and beautiful way
of putting the world back together.
To your body,
where the sun rests when it tires of the sky—
your warmth, your weight,
the scent of you that rises
like crushed jasmine under a barefoot prayer.
And to your soul—
that mysterious tide I can never quite hold,
that flickers and returns
like the moonlight on a river
always moving, always yours.
I want to learn you,
not memorize you.
I want to understand the dreams
that never made it out of your mouth,
the fears you named once
and then buried beneath a laugh.
Tell me what you love
like it hurts to love it.
Tell me what you hate
like it’s carved into your ribs.
Let your truth come to me
as water to a cracked field.
I long for the moment
when our lips first met—
that trembling second when time
split itself open
and let us fall through.
I crave the electricity of your first touch,
the pulse beneath skin
that says: here, now,
this is real.
And then—your eyes,
burning with the wild sky inside you.
Your smile,
that impossible light
that breaks me and mends me
in the same breath.
You are not just body—
though I worship it.
You are not just soul—
though I bow to it.
You are not just mind—
though it astonishes me.
You are the whole map.
And I,
with these trembling hands,
am the traveler
still learning
how to read you.
Broken Author 