FOR YOU

She was painted in still warmth.

Lips parted,eyes closed,
holding smoke the way women

hold secrets— unrushed, intentional.

Color moves like touch across her skin,

warm where she yields,

cool where she guards.

Nothing performed.

Nothing withheld.

 

The cigar rests at her mouth

as if it belongs there—

fire tempered by patience,

desire governed by choice.

She inhales what she wants.

She releases when ready.

 

This is not seduction.

It is familiarity.

The ease of a woman at home

with her own appetite.

Painted for myself,

for quiet hours and private knowing—

until someone else felt the pull.

He asked.

Not with urgency,

but with care—

as though he understood

what it meant to want something

that was not yet his.

The painting paused.

Then leaned.

Between the asking and the answer,

recognition settled—

soft, deliberate—

like breath held just long enough

to feel it.

What was meant to stay

softened.

What was seen

consented.

Some women keep their fire.

Some offer it.

And some art,

when met with reverence,

knows exactly

where it belongs.