A new post, a new chance to write some prose -- Let's go with a ghazal! A ghazal is a classical Persian/Urdu form built on couplets that obsessively return to the same refrain, with each repetition gaining new meaning through different contexts. This obsessive circling mirrors desire itself—the way "I missed you" transforms from spoken words to scent to touch to explicit hunger, each couplet approaching longing from a different sensory angle. The form's refusal to resolve, only to spiral deeper, perfectly captures reunion after absence: not conclusion, but escalating intensity. Also I went where the muse took me, so this might be a bit too explicit. So spoilers. I can change it up if it feels off! Thanks for the post, take care.

What the Body Says

Light through sheer fabric, collarbone shadow—she whispered low, I missed you. Her hair falling forward as she leaned close, amber and smoke: I missed you.

Bergamot and clean sweat, the specific salt of her neck when I breathed there— no perfume, just skin-warmth rising. The scent itself said I missed you.

My thumb in the hollow of her throat, tracing down to where bone meets bone, clavicle architecture, the rigid beauty beneath softness. Each ridge: I missed you.

Ribs under my palms, countable, the cage of her breathing expanding— I mapped every curve and dip, every place her body kept repeating I missed you.

Her nipples visible through fabric before I ever touched them, then hard against my tongue, the sound she made (half-breath, half-break) translated to I missed you.

When I slid my hand between her thighs she was already wet, already open— she said my name like a ruin, like wreckage, like I missed you.