No Ticket Needed

They say this kind of pleasure
is silver-screen fantasy—
a fleeting heat you chase
into velvet evenings
before it burns out.

Give it time:
it returns soft,
unannounced,
on demand.

In my bed,
on my neck,
at my fingertips—
where only walls
and the empty chair
are witness.

Eventually, it’s everywhere—
licked clean,
slowed for softer hours,
still tasting
like the first time.

I’ve watched old films replay—
but you?
You never play
the same twice.

Sometimes a hand,
a murmur,
just breath—
subtle shifts
and my skin remembers
what I never knew
I was waiting for
until you arrived.

Isn’t that the rhythm?
Urgency softens to ache,
ache blooms to ritual.
Even the inevitable
finds fresh ways
to surprise the senses.

I could rush—
press you close,
pant with longing,
chase that high
before you’re ready,
before I am,
before the world
can hold the pull.

But I don’t want the trailer.
I want the whole damn season—
the director’s cut,
behind the scenes,
uncut magic—how you move
when no one’s watching.

So I let it drip slow,
like butter
melting on warm toast—

In my mind, I trace our edges,
let bedrock hum low,
let air thicken
with the scent
of when we both
arrive at yes.

I’m in no fucking hurry.
Let me wait a century.
Make me wait past death.
I’ve needed a lesson
in patience for a while.

Let it linger,
sway,
come ripe—
shaking with spill.

Because what’s worth keeping
never crashes.
It glides.
It sighs.
It slips its dress off
just so—
and puddles on the floor.

And if it does—
no ticket needed:
just you, me,
everywhere.

And if it doesn't—
no apology needed:
I have the beauty
my waiting became.