Near Enough to Forget Myself

Come closer—

close enough that my thoughts lose their shoes

and leave muddy prints all over dignity.

I was fine before you—

balanced, articulate, emotionally house-trained.

Then you stood there,

and suddenly my breath started asking questions

my mouth wasn’t cleared to answer.

I can feel you before I touch you,

a static hum along my skin,

like my body recognized you

long before my mind was formally introduced.

Words line up at the edge of my teeth,

ready to behave—

but you tilt your head, just slightly,

and they melt,

slow and useless,

down the back of my throat.

I forget where to put my hands.

They hover like they’re waiting for permission

from a god who has also gone quiet.

My pulse gives me away—

a traitor knocking too loud inside my wrists,

saying they’re here, they’re here, they’re here

as if you hadn’t already noticed.

I want to say something clever,

something that sounds like control,

but you’re close enough now

that my thoughts are breathing you in

instead of finishing sentences.

This is where I unravel—

not dramatically, not all at once—

just a soft surrender of edges,

a leaning in,

a forgetting of what I was protecting.

If I tremble, pretend it’s the room.

If I stare too long, call it curiosity.

If I smile like I’ve lost something important,

it’s only because I have—

and you’re standing exactly where it fell.

Stay.

Or don’t.

Either way, I’ll still be standing here,

heart exposed,

motor skills on leave,

ruined in the quiet,

grateful for the damage.