Poetic Biography

I’m not just a lover. I’m a storm you call by name. I don’t slip softly into places or people. I arrive like a confession you never meant to make, & when I leave, I take a piece of you with me, while leaving a piece of myself, still burning, behind.

I crave cities that bruise, not just charm, places that kiss like teeth & leave me aching in the best way. I fall too fast. For smoky food stalls at midnight, for strangers who talk like poets, for eyes that say, I dare you. Travel isn’t a hobby, it’s a ritual, messy, holy, irresistible. I don’t travel just for landscapes. I do it to step into someone else’s world for a moment, to share stories & laughter like we’ve known each other for years.

Every flight is a chase, not for the destination, but for the unraveling. Every landing is a letting go, the kind that makes your chest feel too small. I want to know a city the way you know someone you’ve tried to forget, by touch first, by taste second, with your whole heart caught somewhere between ache & awe.

But obsession means nothing without tenderness. I believe in the kind of kindness you don’t have to speak, the kind tucked inside a shared glance, a soft laugh, or the way someone pauses when they realize they’ve been seen. I try to leave people better than I found them, with a little more light, a little more laughter & the quiet comfort of knowing they mattered. I love making people laugh, real, lose-your-breath kind of laughter. That’s my favorite kind of connection.

Life is meant to be tasted, shared & lived like it’s your only shot, loud, messy, unfiltered. I want to laugh until I choke on wine, kiss like the moment is running out, & leave stories behind that people whisper about later. I’ll talk to anyone if the conversation’s honest. I don’t do small talk well, but I’ll go all in on anything real, direct, open, all heart. If we cross paths, you’ll know, because I don’t do forgettable.

I’m not here for polite distance. I want the truth that stutters out after midnight, the trembling pieces, the beautiful wreckage you don’t show on purpose. Sweetness tastes better with a little bite, & real love should leave marks you trace when the room is quiet & no one else is touching you.

Places tempt me, but people ruin me, in the best, worst ways. Trouble never starts with a touch. It starts with a glance that lingers half a second too long, a silence that hums, a smile that says, I dare you. That’s the kind of kindness I believe in, the wicked kind, the kind that burns slow & leaves you wondering if it was ever safe. If I want you, you’ll feel it, not in words, but in the way the room gets warmer when I look at you.

For all my wickedness, I’m a romantic, just not the soft kind. I don’t want perfection. I want the stories your body tells when you’re too tired to lie. The fears you only name in the dark. The scar you trace without realizing. I want the ache you’ve hidden & the hunger you barely let yourself feel. Bring me that, raw, flawed, unfiltered, & I’ll give you the same, no hesitation, no apologies.

The real seduction lives in the in-betweens, where conversation slows, a breath catches, a smile hovers just long enough to mean more. It’s in the near-touch that feels louder than contact, the silence that lingers like a dare. That kind of tension follows you home, clings to your skin like cologne you don’t remember putting on.

I crave the chase, not for the body, but for the unraveling. The slow confession of who you are when you think I’m not watching. The truth you let slip when your guard forgets to show up. That moment you stop hiding, not out of fear, but because being seen suddenly feels like freedom. If the spark between us is sharp enough, we won’t just write a story, we’ll make one out of breath & silence, hunger & hesitation, the kind that stains sheets, skin & every thought that follows. And when the noise fades, I’ll be in the hot tub, playlist low, snacks nearby, drink in hand, hoping the next story walks through the door with bare feet & honest eyes.