near
my gaze followed you into the room,
half a second late, half a second hungry.
resistance fading,
warmth leaning in
by the time I arrived,
you were already where I would stand.
Not touching—not far,
close enough,
just angled,
“it’s near”, mouthed the shape,
as my shadow held place
You spoke first.
You always did.
Not to me.
To the moment I hadn’t caught up with yet,
where my fingers touched your wrists.
I noticed my choices thinning—
where to look,
how long to breathe,
if to breathe,
The words I planned stayed intact,
but unused,
like an exit everyone forgot to mention.
By then,
I wasn’t deciding to stay.
I was simply the last part to arrive.
Hunger leaned in,
close enough
ㅤㅤ
For those who choose to go a little deeper,
paid subscribers get:
a monthly essay where I take recent work apart properly — drafts, cuts, false starts, and why things were kept or thrown away
access to a Guided Noticing for those who join during this window — slow, attentive readings rather than critique
occasional paid-only pieces, and some posts released early before becoming public
Everything I publish publicly stays public.
This is about making space for slower work, and for people who want to stay close to how it’s made.
If you’ve been hovering, this is a good moment to step in.
I’m always open to thoughtful writing collaborations.
Other prose and poems.
Nothing truly leaves — it just changes how it stays.
If something moved in you — a silence that whispered — I’d love to hear it below, or in my DM’s.
All artwork courtesy of NDjin Gallery
Wonderful
This isn’t just a poem, it’s a study in attention. Every half-second, every shadow and lean, every withheld word becomes its own movement in a choreography of desire. I feel it: arriving late, hungry, trying to catch a moment already claimed, and discovering that presence isn’t about getting there first, it’s about how fully you inhabit what’s already happened. You’ve turned anticipation, hesitation, and longing into a kind of art I don’t just read; I move inside it.