"The Art Of Slow Possession"
The Teacher:
I watched her walk down the hall
textbooks clutched to her chest
like a shield
she doesn't yet know is paper thin.
She always bites her lip
before she speaks.
Does she know how much she's already given me
with that single, trembling habit?
I assigned her a private project today.
Said it was because I saw promise.
And I do.
But not the kind that earns grades.
She looked at me like
I handed her the moon.
Darling,
I am the moon,
and you're not ready for the tides
I'll drag through your body.
I told her to stay after class.
Just a little longer.
Just enough to watch her squirm
under fluorescent lights
and praise
disguised as critique.
She asked if she was doing well.
I walked behind her,
leaned low,
whispered in her ear:
"You're doing exactly what I hoped for."
She blushed.
Tried to smile.
Tried to stay upright.
I lingered in her space
the ghost of perfume and breath,
the implication
without the crime.
This is how you build devotion:
not in declarations,
but in inches
a stolen look here,
a brush of fingers there,
the suggestion that maybe,
just maybe,
you're the reason her world feels suddenly off balance.
She doesn't know yet
how deep she's sunk.
She still thinks
this is admiration.
A harmless fascination.
But I've already rewritten her instincts.
She checks the door when she walks in.
Looks for me before anyone else.
Waits for my eyes
before she speaks.
And when she speaks,
it's for me.
She is learning the art
of being watched.
And I,
the artist
am patient,
polished,
perfectly poised
to ruin her beautifully.