Yours to tease at the edges of reason,

to circle slowly,

to pull the thread of my composure

until it unravels in your hands.

Yours to summon with a look,

to fluster with a word,

to hold in that charged space

between “almost” and “now.”

Yours to command into stillness,

to tilt my chin and make me meet

the full weight of your gaze.

Yours to draw color to my skin

with nothing but your voice,

to make my pulse stumble

just by saying my name a certain way.

Yours to protect—

to stand in front of when the world

forgets how to be kind,

to shield with your body, your silence,

your unspoken “no one touches

what is mine to guard.”

Yours to soften in your arms

when the day has been unrelenting,

when my own thoughts

have turned against me.

Yours to taste,

in every quiet way that means—

the salt of my tears

when I trust you enough to cry,

the laughter that bursts out of me

when you least expect it,

the sharp honesty of my confessions

spilled between us in the dark.

Yours to explore,

with hands that learn instead of judge,

with eyes that see instead of measure.

Yours to map like unfamiliar terrain,

patiently tracing every valley and rise,

every scar and shiver,

until the whole of me

is no longer foreign to you.

Yours to test,

to bring to the edge

of what I thought I could bear—

emotion, sensation, surrender—

and then hold steady

so I know the difference

between falling apart

and finally letting go.

Yours to inflict ache upon—

the sweet, slow burn

of wanting more than you give,

of being kept waiting on purpose,

of feeling your nearness

and not quite having you yet.

Yours to flood with relief

when you finally close the distance

and answer everything at once.

Yours to take pleasure from,

to read every hitch of breath,

every tremor, every gasp

as a language you’ve studied by heart.

Yours to draw reactions from

like music from an instrument,

hands sure, intent focused,

listening to every note I make

and playing me deeper.

Yours to love—

not gently only,

but fiercely,

with all the sharp edges intact.

To hold my darkness in one hand

and my light in the other

and refuse to set either down.

Yours to open—

slowly, deliberately—

until no part of me

remains hidden in the dark.

Until the shy, quiet corners

I’ve kept locked away

stand bare before you,

seen, touched, known.

Until the map of who I am

is inked across your memory

in trembling lines and soft gasps.

I am yours.

Yours to bend,

but never snap.

Yours to test,

but never discard.

Yours to bring to your breaking point,

only to gather back together

with careful hands,

reminding me that “broken”

is not the same as “abandoned.”

Yours to make wait,

to stretch time like a tight wire

between wanting and having,

teaching me the ache

that makes fulfillment sweeter.

But never forgotten—

always held in the back of your mind,

always on the tip of your intention,

even in your busiest hours.

Yours to claim,

but not to diminish.

To say “mine” in a way

that makes me stand taller,

not smaller.

To own not as possession,

but as vow:

that you will show up,

turn toward,

choose again and again.

Yours to hold tightly,

arms firm enough

to make the world fall away,

but never so tight

that my wings forget

they were made for flight.

To be the grip I lean into,

not the cage I struggle against.

Yours to set free—

to watch me step into rooms alone

with your faith still warm on my skin.

To let me roam, create, become,

knowing I will return

not because you’ve chained me,

but because this is the place

where my wildness is welcomed,

not feared.

Yours to keep close,

but never lock away.

To walk beside,

hand at the small of my back,

guiding when I waver,

releasing when I need to run.

I am yours—

in the way a flame belongs

to the one who knows

how to cup it without smothering,

how to feed it

without burning the house down.

I am yours to touch

without claiming ownership

of the person beneath the skin.

Yours to witness

without rewriting my story.

Yours to cherish

without ever forgetting

that I could have stayed hidden

and chose, instead,

to open my palms

and place my whole, wild self

into your waiting hands.

I am yours—

not as an object,

but as an offering.

Not as a prisoner,

but as a willing, breathing yes.

Written by https://substack.com/@chicandchillingreads

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