The Altar of Her Whim

The air shifts when she enters, a current
sifting sand from stone.
She does not ask for your attention;
she commands the space you occupy.

Her gaze is a physical weight.
She knows the science of her own skin,
the precise angle of a wrist or hip
that will draw surrender from your throat.

She expects the world.

Not for vanity, but as a toll.
Your pride, your name, your plans,
laid at the altar of her whim.

And in return, a whispered promise:
yield, and she will give you
everything you never knew you wanted.