🔖 Window‑Shopping

Some people collect lovers.

Others collect moments. Glances. Angles. A certain tilt of the chin.

I’ve never been one to chase.

But I do look. I do marvel.

And sometimes, admiring from afar feels more sacred than reaching.

I once told a man

he was like a Picasso.

Not for the angles—

but the ache.

Some would pay any price to own.

Some would risk everything to steal.

But me?

I’d just visit the museum every day

to sit quietly

and marvel.

And pray that someone,

someday,

sees him

as I do.

---

…for men I’ll never touch.

I don’t want to own them.

Or chase them.

Or even speak their names out loud.

I just want to pass by, slowly—

take in the shape of the shoulders,

the fold of the coat,

the way the light hits the edges of a cheekbone

without obligation.

I want to admire the line of a spine

the way I admire architecture—

structurally sound,

aesthetic by accident,

nothing to do with me.

I want to notice

how he glances down when he laughs,

how he moves with the quiet arrogance of someone

who has never had to ask to be looked at.

And I want to feel that small ache

in my chest

without needing to heal it.

Let me browse.

Let me linger.

Let me indulge in the safety of distance.

These men are perfect

not because I cannot reach them—

but because

I don’t want to.

There is power in leaving beauty where it stands,

untouched.

Unbothered.

Unruined by closeness.

---

Not every ache needs fixing.

Not every beauty needs naming.

Sometimes the safest love is the one you never touch—

the kind that stays perfect

simply because you let it stay far away.

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