I Am Not the Runway

You tell me I’m sexy—
with the confidence of a man
who believes he has named something.

But I have long since outgrown
the need to be introduced to myself.

I met her already—
in the quiet,
in the unraveling,
in the slow, sacred reconstruction
of a woman who chose herself
without witnesses.

What you see now
is simply the surface tension
of something far more precise.

It is quantum sensuality.

Not performance.
Not an invitation.
Not the flicker designed
to be consumed.

It is coherence—
a body, a spirit, a knowing
so aligned
that even silence becomes magnetic.

You offer your compliments
like well-meaning arrivals—
polished, gentle, almost practiced.

And yes—
they brush against me,
soft as a passing wind.

I allow the smile.
I do.

But do not mistake that smile
for permission,
or presence,
or arrival.

I am not the runway
for language that has not been learned
How to land.

You assume your words might lift me—
make me rise, perhaps—

But I have been airborne
for quite some time.

That part is no longer up for discussion.

There is a certain innocence in your approach.
A kind of charming simplicity.

But let us be honest—
It is rudimentary.

Because what you offer
names the obvious
while missing the architecture.

And I—
I am not moved by the obvious.

Quantum healing has refined my ear.
I listen differently now.

I can feel the difference
between admiration
and attunement,
between presence
and projection,
between a man who sees beauty
and one who understands power.

What reaches me
must arrive with depth.

Must carry intention.
Must recognize that I am not waiting
to be awakened
by someone still learning
the language of his own awareness.

Until then—

Take the smile.
It was genuine.

Take the moment.
It was gracious.

And take your leave
with dignity intact.

Go—
beautifully,
lightly,
on your merry way.

I will remain—
unmoved,
unbothered,
and exquisitely
in my own orbit.

Sherley Delia