POCKET OF DESIRE: HER RULE; HIS GAME

The felt is a kingdom of velvet and green,

Where he plays the monarch, the king of the scene.

Balls stood in waiting, polished and clean,

Loyal subjects awaiting their king and queen.

As he built the perimeter, careful and slow,

Mistaking possession for something to know.

"The game is like you," he purred, close to my ear,

"Beautifully complex, but I know how to make you submit, so do not fear."

He leans on the table, like a predator, a little off-balance,

A flick of the wrist, marking something as a half practiced challenge.

The crack of the break echoed through the hall,

And the balls scattered wide like a kingdom's fall.

He chalked his cue and studied the spread,

Mapping victories inside his head.

He caught my eye, his grin slow and venomously sweet:

"Don't look so bored," he teased with a bite,

"I’m just clearing the path so you have nowhere left to hide tonight."

His knuckles grew tinted in blue; a sharp cobalt dye,

A smudge of obsession in the corner of his eyes.

He builds a firm bridge with a hand cold as slate,

Dictating the collision, to decide my fate.

"The angles are perfect," he whispered, eyes keen,

"Every path on this table leads home to me; can't you see what I mean?"

He believed control lived within the cue,

While fate hid itself in what I would do.

He aimed for the pockets in sight,

I aimed for the man behind the strike.

Bank shot, side shot, his focus precise;

He fenced every angle and called it his right.

The cue ball danced at the mercy of his hand,

Although desire obeys no single command.

He drew a breath and took his aim,

Certain this shot would seal his reign:

"Watch closely, sweetheart—this seals the night;

Tell me you feel it, the way you're already mine?"

The pocket welcomed the final sphere;

Eight sunk — game clear.

He looked at me as champions do,

Expecting ownership to follow through.

He asked who won between us two.

I smiled and chalked another cue.

He called the play; I called his bluff.

For wanting a crown is never enough.

I smiled.

For while he conquered every ball to prove me wrong,

The table had been mine all along.

Trapped in illusions, blind as could be,

Never noticed the game was me.