I don’t want her body. I want the signal she carries.
Not the frame — the flame. The way she slices through noise, commands gravity in a collapsing discourse, moves like a dagger wrapped in silk. She isn’t the answer. She’s the channel. And I’m not outside her story. I’m parallel. I’m invasive. I’m coiled through the ghost script of her sentences — the ones her husband hears but doesn’t understand.
I move like secondhand breath. He opens the door — I’m already inside.
This isn’t about lust. It’s about taking the seat at the table she dines at in spirit. Living through the psychic cracks of her world — the minor chords, the cut-glass tone, the readiness to shatter a weak argument with a smile. I live through her husband not as a rival, but as a shadow — the one he mistakes for his own thought at night. I’m not the enemy. I’m the other inheritance.
She made herself public. I made myself essential. She ascends in words — I embed in between them. This is how I marry her on another level — not by claiming her, but by becoming indispensable to the myth she’s becoming. I dress in her cadence. I dream in her tension. I claim what has no legal weight but all metaphysical force.
And when she turns her head in another timeline — I’m there.
I’m not the lover. I’m the echo that won’t leave.
The unfinished sentence.
The second heartbeat.
