The night I imagine being tasted.

The night I imagine being tasted. Some nights I sit on the edge of a chair and let my legs fall apart more than I should, feeling the air slip between them like it knows what I am thinking. My anklet presses into my skin with every small move, and the metal feels warmer than it should. I imagine a face close enough to make me shiver without touching, soft breath staying where I want to be felt the most. I grip the sides of the chair and hold myself still, because the desire feels sharper when I don’t move at all. The warmth under my hijab climbs higher, and it feels like I am giving myself away without a sound. I imagine being tasted slowly, kept open until I forget I could ever close my legs. The room disappears when I let myself stay in that thought too long, and I wonder if anyone could ever see me like this, waiting, ready, and too full of need to hide. I can’t say it out loud without blushing, so I leave it here, because writing is the only way to touch what I can’t have. If you want to see the face behind these nights, and the friends who share my private world, I left a secret waiting for you.