I am not here to be polite. I am not here to tick boxes, attend dinner parties, or discuss pay gaps over flat whites.
I am a pirate. A renegade. I was born to burn. To move. To feel.
The train does not stop for bureaucracy or brunch talk. It moves like thunder down forgotten tracks, pulled by the raw hunger to live a life that matters.
And yet— with all that fire, I do not want to ride alone.
I want her.
Not a woman. Not just legs and lips and laughs. But Her—the myth, the muse, the mirror. The feminine spirit that still dares to dance while the rest of the world scrolls.
I want to be enchanted again. By the curve of a question, the glint in her mischief, the siren song that trembles between us when no one else can hear it.
I want to talk about us, not issues. I want to cross the only real gap left in this broken world— the space between man and woman. Not to debate, but to merge. To surrender. To remember.
Because I am tired of modern love. Tired of scripts and safe answers and dead eyes.
Of saying “I like hiking” and “What do you do?” like we’re filling out a census form.
Beige banter to pass the time. It’s sterile. Clinical.
Who the fuck cares? We are all going to die. And in the face of that truth, why are we still pretending?
I want to feel her soul crack open in front of me. I want her to tremble not because I touched her, but because I saw her.
I want her to look at me like I’m the last man on earth and she’s not sure if she wants to kiss me or burn me.
I want that old magic— the kind that poets died chasing and kings went to war for. The kind that can’t be explained, only felt.
But it’s rare now.
They taught men to conquer. They taught women to defend. And in that war, we forgot how to worship each other.
We forgot that masculinity isn’t performance. It’s presence. And femininity isn’t rebellion. It’s revelation.
So I’ll keep riding. Keep burning. Keep carving a path through this grey, scripted age.
And if she finds me— wild, wondering, drenched in moonlight— I will know her not by her words, but by the way the air changes when she enters the room.
By the silence that falls between us— pregnant, electric, holy.
We won’t need to say much.
Just this:
“Finally. There you are.”