UNCHARTED

 

UNCHARTED

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The Leap Unplanned

No glance at your calendar’s grid,

no scribbled slots for meetings or mundane—

you swept past the ink,

etching instead

the reckless unraveling of walls,

brick by brick,

a demolition born of impulse.

Uncertainty shed its heavy cloak,

traded for a what-the-hell shrug,

a leap into the unknown

where the air crackles

with the thrill of maybe,

and the pulse of possibility

beats louder

than any scheduled tick.

That Voice in the Dim

It started with her—

that lipstick-lesbian voice,

a velvet snare curling through the haze,

low and liquid,

dripping honey

across the din of a Monday night.

She seduced without trying,

each word a flicker

of crimson temptation,

drawing me in

like moths to a barroom glow.

Her laughter spilled,

a cascade over chipped tables,

and I fell—

not victim,

but willing captive

to the pull of her sound.

Corridor Whispers

Smoke breaks in private corridors,

air thick with ash and secrets,

where neon flashes

from the bar’s pulse

cast shadows on peeling paint.

She leaned close,

cigarette dangling,

its ember a tiny sun

mirroring the spark in her gaze.

Disclosures slipped out,

soft as breath,

hints of intimacy

woven in the spaces

between touch—

a brush of intent

that never landed,

yet landed all the same,

heavy with unspoken weight.

The Dance of Feeling

No genius in my own skin,

but hers—

a tapestry of lived brilliance,

stitched with nights

she’d spun into stories.

There’s no doubting

she gave me lap dances

of emotiveness—

her presence a sway,

a rhythm of raw and real,

 hips of honesty

grinding close without contact.

I felt the heat

of her nearness,

a choreography of soul

that left me dizzy,

reeling in the aftermath

of her unscripted art.

Walls Down, Eyes Open

Those moments linger,

unmarked by dates or deadlines—

a barstool confession,

a smoke-wreathed promise,

etched into the marrow

of a night unclaimed by clocks.

She traded certainty

for the wild chance

of us colliding,

and I followed,

walls crumbling

to dust at my feet.

Her voice still echoes,

a siren’s call

through the fog of memory,

urging me forward

into the uncharted,

where intimacy

blooms without form,

and I’m left

aching for more.

The Afterglow

Now, in the quiet,

I trace the shape of it—

no appointments to pin it down,

no calendar to cage

the chaos she stirred.

The roses of her lipstick linger,

the bar’s hum fades,

and I’m left

with the genius of her gift:

a closeness

that never needed hands,

a dance

that never touched the floor.

You tore down my walls,

left them scattered,

and I’m still here,

sifting through the rubble,

 marveling at

the richness

of what-the-hell