Sexy Boy

I watch you

like the seam of a dress,

every line, every fold —

careful, precise, alive.

Your silence

is louder than a runway applause.

Your smile

fits between the pages of my favorite books,

where words linger

and touch like whispered silk.

You move

and the world adjusts,

not because it has to,

but because it wants to.

Every step —

a story I can almost read,

if I lean close enough.

Your presence

is not just noticed —

it is felt,

like warm light through a linen curtain,

soft, uncontained,

intoxicating without trying.

I trace you

like patterns in fabric,

like margins of encyclopedias,

curious, patient,

knowing every fold tells something

no one else can see.

You are sexy

because you exist

without explanation,

without performance,

without apology.

And I —

designer of my own worlds —

watch quietly,

learning the art of you

through sight, breath, and heartbeat.

International.

Timeless.

Intimate.