"The Invitation"
Student:
I didn't mean to climb the stairs
barefoot, heart caged in silk and shame,
but the storm whispered your name
and the hallway pulsed like a promise.
Your door
half-open. Like a sigh.
I paused, breath in bloom,
convinced I was the one trespassing.
The rain clung to my skin like guilt,
and I told myself:
this is my sin.
Not yours.
I slipped inside slow,
the air thick with jasmine and something else
like knowledge,
like danger.
Your lamp glowed low in the corner
but you weren't there.
Only your perfume on the chair.
Your velvet robe,
your deliberate silence.
I thought I was freefalling.
I thought I came here for you.
I didn't see the ribbon on the floor,
the wine on the table,
your book opened to a poem I once read in class.
My knees weakened
as if I had stumbled into a myth,
not a room.
And the storm outside kept pretending
this was fate.
Teacher:
She stepped exactly where I wanted her—
barefoot, wet, trembling with conviction
that this was her crime,
that I would be shocked.
I left the door open just enough,
lit the lamp to gold.
I do love how they tremble
when they think it's their idea.
Her scent
wild rain, sugar,
fear wrapped in courage
entered before she did.
Delightful.
She found my robe on the chair
like a clue.
My glass half full,
a subtle dare.
My words waiting for her
in an underlined stanza.
She thinks she's bold.
She doesn't yet know
I rehearsed this
Every look, every silence,
the perfect lighting on her wrist,
the exact moment she'd hear my footsteps
emerge from the shadows behind her
and turn around breathless,
undone.
And I?
I smile like a storm in silk.
I press my hand
to the small of her back,
like a spell sliding into flesh.
She shivers yes.
Not knowing
this was never hers to begin with.