Let me have it

You’ve been holding it all week—
the weight of decisions,
the clutter of messes,
the quiet crumbling of yourself
while keeping everything together.

Friday night, I see you
running on fumes,
until the door swings and
I’m there, waiting,
hands ready, eyes claiming
what’s been carried too long.

Your bag hits the floor;
my fingers brush the back of your neck—
a whisper, a command,
and you obey without thought,
without hesitation,
without the weight of holding
for a moment more.

Rope slides between us,
and suddenly,
I hold it all—the trust,
the worry, the doubt,
the ache of yesterday,
the pulse of tomorrow,
your breath, your hunger,
your soul laid bare.

Wrists, ankles, boundaries, limits—
all tied,
all given,
all surrendered
to the rhythm of my hands,
the slow and deliberate claiming
of your body, your desire,
your mind finally unburdened.

Each touch is permission:
to release, to dissolve,
to fall apart in my arms
and let me have it—
your thought, your consciousness,
your morality, your fear,
your passion, your pain,
your pleasure, your power,
your everything.

Eyes lock, breath trembles,
and your first, second, third
collapse into moans,
shaking, trembling,
until all the weight
slips from your shoulders
and I am holding it—
holding you—
so you don’t have to.

When the ropes fall away,
you are wrecked,
but whole,
and I whisper,
“No more weight tonight.
It’s all mine now.”

All the trust, all the thought, all the burden—
let me have it,
and in giving,
you are free.