Slow Burn

Past midnight, a wet road, my hand on your knee. I never said a word, and you knew exactly where the night was going.

You woke up in my flat wearing my shirt. I was already in the kitchen, and I had decided how the morning would go.

You were told five o'clock and almost nothing to wear. I was already waiting at the edge.

You said seven. The buzzer went at ten to six, and I was still wet from the shower.

You said one drink and one hour. I closed the door and let the night decide.

You stayed on the bench by the window, so I started moving slower on purpose.

You came in still running on the day. I turned one lamp on and took the rest of the night off you.

You said you only had an hour. I never actually agreed to that.

Two days, no plans, and every hour of it running at the pace I decide.

Last mat in the back corner, door already shut, and the pace I decided to set.

Doors locked, one lamp on, and you following every move I give you.

Studio empty, one low lamp, and a message meant only for you.

One breath, my pace, and the whole room goes quiet.

Where the calm ends and the quieter heat begins.

No rush, no noise, just how I would start the day with you close.

The simple flow I move through before the world wakes up.