This isn't about longing.
It's about summoning.
Something in me calls across distances unseen,
past deserts of pretense,
through forests of men who never left boyhood,
searching for one who remembers.
I am not a wound looking to be healed.
I am a signal looking to be answered.
A force so distilled it refuses to wear the masks of need.
Let me say it plainly —
I am done negotiating with men who fear their own fire.
Done translating myself into languages they should already speak.
Done holding the weight of their fragmentation while they marvel at my center.
I want a man who can feel my presence and not flinch.
Who sees I am not performing, and doesn’t mistake that for passivity.
Who knows that when I look at him — really look —
I’m not searching for what’s wrong.
I’m assessing: Can you hold this field without collapsing?
Can you meet me without trying to manage, manipulate, or measure me?
And yes, I am beautiful.
Not the kind that begs to be noticed,
but the kind that dares you to stay.
The kind that awakens your forgotten self — the one that died in systems of shame.
I’m not waiting.
I’m watching.
And you should know the difference.
Because when the right one arrives,
there will be no need for translation.
He will already be fluent
in the silence between us.
In the charge that doesn’t need explaining.
In the truth that lives under language.
So come with your history metabolized.
Come with your power aligned.
Come with your fucking yes —
not the performance of it,
not the negotiation of it —
but the bone-deep yes of a man who has met himself, and didn't run.
Because I will feel you before you speak.
And if you're not whole,
you won’t last long in this field.