Tides of Desire

He doesn’t pose for the mirror. He confronts it. Weight shifts. Muscle tightens. This is the last moment that belongs entirely to him. Once the lights respond, the body will no longer be his alone.

The stethoscope rests where breath tightens. The clipboard stays blank. He doesn’t ask questions. He waits for the body to confess on its own — the heat behind the ribs, the ache that doesn’t register on charts.

Gold traced him without permission, catching at the edges of muscle and shadow. Dionysus did not perform. He allowed himself to be seen—slowly, deliberately—until breath elsewhere became uneven He had returned knowing exactly what restraint does to desire. He had mastered it centuries ago.

He didn’t wave. He didn’t shout. He simply planted his feet in the dust, lifted his thumb, and let his body do the rest. In the dry heat, his silhouette shimmered — a promise, a warning, a fantasy with a backpack.