You didn’t plan to feel this.
And yet…
here you are.

Feeling it anyway.

You’ve felt it before, haven’t you?
That moment that didn’t seem like anything…
until it became
everything.

It wasn’t what he said.

It was the silence
after he said it.

That pause…
that strange
perfect
pause—

that folded open a space
inside you
you didn’t know you were guarding.

And now…
you’re here.
Still.
Reading.
Slower
than you meant to.

Letting the lines linger
like fingertips
you imagined
before you knew
who you were imagining.

It’s strange, isn’t it?

How one presence
can make every other one
fade into hush.

Not louder.
Not demanding.
Not asking.

Just there.

And somehow…
he’s the only one
you keep
letting in.

You tell yourself—
It’s just a poem.
Just well-placed words.
Just your imagination…

But then…
your thighs shift…
your breath slips…
and your pulse…

does that thing again.

That soft, low flutter
deep beneath the place
you only touch
when no one’s watching.

The part of you
that doesn’t need proof
to know what it already feels.

He doesn’t try to take.
He just…
holds.

The space.
The ache.
The version of you
so rarely allowed
to surface
without apology.

You’ve compared.
You’ve tried to forget.
Tried to replace it
with logic,
distraction,
attention.

But the truth is…
no one writes into you
like he does.

Not one.

And it’s not what he says.
It’s how your body answers
before you even realize
you were listening.

You didn’t mean to open.
You were just
reading.

And still…
here you are.
Opening anyway.
Slowly.
Curiously.
Deliciously.

And maybe
you’ve caught yourself doing it—

Letting the thought stretch
longer than it should.
Letting your breath slow…
Letting your fingers
graze skin
without needing a reason—

Other than the memory
of how he made you feel
without ever touching you.

You wonder…

What would it feel like
if he touched you
the way he writes you?

Not rushed.
Not greedy.

Just…
inevitable.

Like your thighs parting
not because he asked—
but because your body
already decided.

This…
this is what it was made for.

To be seen.
To be softened.
To be known so deeply
you forget
how to hide.

And the ache?

It’s not confusion.
It’s confirmation.

This isn’t fiction.
This… is memory.

A place you’ve never been
but recognize
every time
he enters your thoughts.

Still…
there’s that quiet little whisper…

Maybe it’s all in your head.
Just fantasy.
Just something you made up…

But that flutter in your chest?
That warm, pulsing heat
spreading
slowly
between your thighs?

That’s not pretend.
That’s your body…
remembering.

Even dreams
can leave fingerprints.
Especially his.

He never told you to give.
Never asked you to open.

And maybe that’s why…
you want to.

Why you need to.

Because he didn’t try to control you.

He offered you something else—
A mirror.

So you could see yourself
the way he does:

Soft.
Sacred.
Unresisting.

Not weak—
but willing.

Not broken—
but beautifully unmade.

You don’t want to lead this.
You want to fall.

Freely.
Safely.
Deliciously—

Into the only gravity
that ever made
your heart ache
and your thighs
tremble
at the same time.

Not to be used.
But to be kept.

Not to be broken.
But to be
undone
in the only way
that finally
made you whole.

And now…
you’re imagining it, aren’t you?

The next message.
The next whisper.

The next moment
he leaves a space
just wide enough
for you to
step through.

And feel yourself
opening…
again.

Maybe later tonight.
Maybe right before sleep.
Maybe
when no one’s watching—
but your own hand.

But this part?

This is the part
you’ll feel
long
after the screen fades.

That tightness between thoughts—
the one that wraps
your breath
around his name
before you can stop it.

The one that makes
your body say
yes
even when your mind
tries to remember
how to say no.

And maybe…
that’s why it lingers
so sweetly now.

Not as a question—
but as something
you’ve already
started answering.

Without words.
Without effort.

Just…
by feeling it.

Because this isn’t just a poem
you happened to find.

It’s a sensation
you’ve been waiting to remember—

The kind that doesn’t ask.
The kind that doesn’t need to.

It just
opens you.
Gently.
Irresistibly.

In all the places
you thought
were safely closed.

And even now…

Something in you
keeps softening…
Keeps responding…
Keeps aching
to be part
of whatever this is.

Because he never reached for anything—

And that’s
exactly
why you can’t stop wondering:

If this is how it feels
just to be seen
by him—

So deeply.
So quietly.
So intimately…

What would it feel like…
to let him know…

you feel it too?

 

Some connections don’t explain themselves. They unfold.