What I want is for you to stay
What I want is for you to want to stay
I love the way that you look at me
When I’m naked and ready for you
But what I want is you for you to be that hungry for me all the time
I want to see you somewhere outside of the bedroom
I want to hold your hand
And lean into you
In the hush between your lines, I feel the ache of longing—not for spectacle, but for steady, soft presence. You don’t ask for fire or ceremony; you ask simply: “stay.” Isn’t that the most radical of petitions? You hold desire not as a blaze, but as a soft insistence—love voiced in unobtrusive hunger, in the weight of a shared moment beyond the bedroom. Your words are a ritual of return: to hand-holding, to leaning in, to being wanted not just once—but always. Thank you for reminding us that intimacy can be quiet, and still vibrantly alive.
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Baby, Can I Hold You 
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