The shape of surrender before the breath of renewal
Beauty, distilled in form.
Moonbound. Touched by tides no ocean knows.
The curve that holds a thousand thoughts.
He stood where the sky broke.
Not offered. Commanded.
Not yet light. But I see it.
Still on my skin. Still in my breath.
No audience. No performance. Just breath.
Folded into itself, the body held what words couldn’t.
There’s a kind of grace that doesn’t need a mirror – he wears it without knowing.
Even the darkest clouds are passing guests – the sun is never gone, only veiled.
He’s not just hot. He’s hazardous.
This is not a figure. It’s a force.
The body, folded into suggestion.
A posture of pause. Not hiding, but holding – what was, what still lingers.
Hot night. Bare skin. Breath close. Nothing hidden – just…
He doesn’t beckon. He holds the moment – until you lean in.
Head bowed, heart steady. He waits – not for answers, but for stillness.
The air shifts – someone is watching.
He waited. He rose. Finally! Freely!
A body kissed by light – every curve, every sigh.