This instinct

I cannot explain it.

This instinct.

It triggers itself on the flimsiest of evidence.

A handshake. Eyes meeting, Movements observed. The timbre of a voice. A fragment of conversation. The way she wears her clothes.

And sometimes on even thinner, more distant grounds.

A name. A photograph.  A word on a blog. A comment. Something made favourite.

I can be certain based seemingly on nothing.

I cannot explain it.

This instinct.

I simply know.

I sense a submissive soul.

Sometimes even before she is aware of it herself.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

Written a year ago. But the instinct is as sharp as ever.