In the grip of self-imposed restraint,
I trace the contours of a saint turned quaint.
Edging on the precipice, but never leap,
savoring the climb, steep so steep.
Feral whispers in the crawl of night,
I pant, I beg, in the mirror’s sight.
Hours like centuries stretch under my skin,
a marathon of desire, a symphony of sin.
Each touch a tease, each withdrawal a scream,
caught in the web of this relentless dream.
To break is to lose, to hold is to win,
in the act of delay, I wear my discipline.
I don’t seek the peak, I crave the climb,
in the pit of longing, I bide my time.
The sweeter the ache, the deeper I go,
in this torturous heaven, this exquisite hell below.
Let me suffer for pleasure, let the pain be my guide,
in the purgatory of lust, I willingly reside.
Touch and go, a dance with my reflection,
each move calculated for maximum affection.
On the edge of sanity, on the brink of the fall,
in the chaos of waiting, I find my all.
So I pause, I halt, right before the break,
every moment withheld for its own sweet sake.
In this delay, in this exquisite ache,
I find the truth in the front I fake.