A Grammar Of Almost

—some closeness is measured not in touch, but in the spaces we dare to share

Work spouse—HR shorthand for a lived cliché.

X-rays in long-abandoned airports read sonnets under our silk.

Yes, we learned the steps of that corporate ballet.

Zippers silently weep—damned to sulk.

As highways unbuttoned, our days lived out in lost miles.

Blouses slipped one notch—sheer fabric testing powerlessness.

Car seats cupped our curves; we smirked, flirting—no touch-fouls.

Daring skirt slits breathed; lace played guard—pointless.

Eyes of passengers traced her mystical curves through glare.

Fabric clung to dark peaks where snow-white silk knelt.

Glimpses of her smirk took flight; I claimed her midair.

Hours traveling, our souls open, our hearts only we truly felt.

In terminal rows of eyes, I leaned too close; she inhaled me.

Jeans pressed warm to skin, soft curves for her revealed.

Knowing gazes followed—strangers traced the lines I offered free.

Lingering scent—hips held her there; to her alone, I stayed sealed.

Metal elevator doors breathed closed—our bodies, no light between.

Near-whispers of breath; my breasts pressed warm to her silk back.

Our shadows merged—one muted melody of want, half-seen.

Palms hovered, held in that pause; desire stalled, trapped.

Quiet space, please receive me—I replay her body in meditation.

Remembered scents bloom where her eyes once stayed unspoken.

Solo, I trace what we never crossed—secret liberation.

Touch turning inward, I explore us slowly, eyes closed, body open.

Under sleep’s permission, she comforts me—oh how I ache.

Visiting nightly, I am hers alone, surrendered, overtaken.