Poetry (words)

The chair

I have a poem on my tongue or possibly my fingertips. It’s about a chair. It’s coming….bear with me. 

Imagination so vivid that I can hear the wood creaking under the tension. Small threads break loose like tiny explosions free from restraint. 

He sits, he is bound there. Like still life, beautifully silent, beautifully trusting. His heartbeat the only true acknowledgement to his uncertainty. 

This is not about control, no upper hand involved. This is a breakdown of barriers of walls built to protect. What came before has no place here. 

He’s so beautiful in this light, the soft flicker so defining, so accurate. There’s such nervousness in my fingertips. A blissful realisation of a moment so perfect. 

There’s no struggle as my fingers gently trace his lips. His eyes dilated and hungry now. He is bound here, he is mesmerised. 

With the softest of words he moves uncontrollably. I’m almost lost in this hypnotic thrill. One kiss and I am tethered one kiss and I am bound here. 

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