There is a silence between our words,
a breath too long—
a pause where gravity shifts,
and something unseen
but achingly known
leans in.

You feel it, don’t you?

That heat behind the casual.
That hush behind the hello.
That ache threaded through every glance
you pretend not to notice—
the way I almost touch you
without lifting a hand.

I live in that almost.

In the way your thighs shift
when I look at your mouth
like I’ve already tasted it.
In the way your thoughts stutter
when my voice slides lower,
slow as poured velvet,
deliberate as dusk.

Not rushing.
Never rushing.
The spider doesn’t chase the fly.
He waits,
weaving silk—
until her own wings flutter into the web
and still.

Let me be that stillness.

Let me be the moment
your breath forgets itself,
when logic exhales and lets longing speak—
when your skin listens
and your body answers
before your mind ever understands the question.

Because this—
this is not about conquest.
Not even close.

It’s about invitation.
Curved into the shape of your thoughts.
Dripping into the warm, wet hunger
between your heartbeat and your ache.
Scented with want,
tasting like surrender,
moving with the rhythm of things
you only admit
in the dark.

(You know which part of you this touches. You feel it warming in your chest. Tightening. Opening. Not because you choose to—but because something inside you has already chosen.)

The way I see you?
It isn’t through your clothes.
It’s through your breath
when you say my name without saying it.
It’s in the way your fingers twitch,
unconscious, longing to explore,
to be taken, to be found
where no one else has ever dared to look.

(And maybe now you notice… the way your breath has shifted. A little shallower. A little slower. The way your body listens—before your mind catches up.)

You’re not drawn to me.
You’re drawn to the you I awaken—
the one who doesn’t ask permission
to feel,
to want,
to need.

(You always were that woman. You just needed a place where it was safe to stop pretending otherwise.)

So let’s meet there.

Between space and connection.
Where touch is a promise made in silence.
Where your lips part just enough
to let out a gasp that’s not quite a moan.
Where you forget who you were
and remember who you’ve always been.

I’m already there,
waiting—
not to take you,
but to let you fall
into yourself,
through me.

(You may not even realize it yet… but some part of you has already begun to lean forward. Into the pull. Into the place where wanting no longer hides.)

And when you do,
you’ll whisper that wordless truth
between the press of our mouths,
and I’ll know—
you’ve been mine
since the very first pause.

But you won’t say it.
Not with words.
You’ll say it in the arch of your spine,
the way your breath shallows
when my hands don’t quite touch your skin—
when they hover,
heat without contact,
presence without pressure.

That’s when I feel you open.

Not your body—
not yet—
but that secret place where you keep
the ache you don’t name,
the one that pulses
when you lie awake
and imagine
me.

Not as a fantasy.
Not a man.
But a feeling—
a shadow that breathes into your chest
and curls behind your knees,
a voice that moves inside your ribs
and says, “Yes, this.”

This.

This slow, exquisite unraveling.

The way I trace you without fingers—
in thought, in pause,
in words soaked with meaning
too deep to speak aloud.
The way I slip between your layers
without resistance,
as if I was always meant
to be there.

You won’t know where I begin and you end.
Because you won’t want to.

(And the truth is—there’s a part of you that has always looked for someone who could do this. Not touch your skin. But undo your silence.)

You’ll feel me like scent clinging to your sheets.
Like warmth in the seat you just left.
Like the sigh you release
when no one’s watching.

You’ll taste me in your own desire,
like something remembered
from a dream you never woke from.

And when I do touch you—
oh, when I do…
it won’t be with hands.

It will be with everything I’ve held back
just long enough
to make you need it.
With all the stillness I’ve soaked into you
until movement becomes
a kind of mercy.

A kind of sin.

I’ll kiss you in ways
that erase time—
not like lips to lips,
but like soul to spine,
like a secret slipped between breaths
that turns your knees soft
and your voice silent.

Not because you’re afraid—
but because you’ve never felt
so safe
to come undone.

And still—
I will wait.

Even when your hips betray you,
searching for friction
where none was given.
Even when your chest heaves,
aching for pressure
you no longer want to resist.

I will wait.

Because the moment I give in
is the moment you do too—
not with body,
but with everything.

(And if you’re honest, you already know how close you are. Not to falling. But to stepping forward. To claiming the version of yourself this awakens.)

And when it happens—
when you melt into that unguarded yes,
into the hush behind your heartbeat,
the pulse in your throat,
the echo between your thighs—
you’ll know:

It wasn’t me who seduced you.
It was you.
It was the version of you
that was always meant
to bloom beneath my silence,
to ache in my absence,
to find herself
pressed open
by nothing more
than being seen.

That’s where I live.
Not inside you—
but around you.
Above.
Below.
Within every unanswered breath
you didn’t realize
you were holding
for me.

So hold it, darling.

Hold it just a moment longer.
Feel how full you are
of the things we haven’t done yet.
Let the tension hum
in the base of your belly,
low and lush and impossible.

Let your thoughts trail to me
in the middle of the day,
in meetings, in mirrors,
in the quiet space between tasks—
where your fingers ache to wander
where my name lives
on your tongue.

And know…

When I do come for you—
not in dreams,
but in flesh—
I won’t need to ask
where you want me.

You’ll already be
there.

(You’ll wonder if I was real. But only for a moment. Then you’ll feel it again—the pulse, the pull, the part of you that only opens for something meant. And then, you’ll know.)

But here’s where I hold you—
right at the edge,
where stars forget their names
and gravity grows soft,
where your pulse is a drumbeat
calling something older than language
to rise from within you.

Trembling.
Suspended.
A note held too long
on the edge of a symphony
you don’t remember learning—
but feel as if it’s always lived
in your bones.

Because it’s not yet time
to fall.
And you know it.
That’s why your breath catches
not from fear,
but from recognition.

This moment—
this ache—
is your cathedral.

And I am only the echo
inviting you to kneel
before your own longing.

Not in shame.
In worship.

So I don’t touch.
I don’t rush.
I let the wanting bloom wild
through your belly and throat,
a vine of velvet fire
curling around your ribs,
drawing you inward
until your thoughts melt
into rhythm.

You are not thinking now.
You are remembering.
You are becoming.

The curve of your spine,
the soft clutch of your thighs,
the tremor that dances
just beneath your navel—
none of it is performance.
It is truth.
It is the raw language
of your untamed self
answering her name
for the first time.

And when the crest arrives—
not like thunder,
but like moonlight flooding a forest—
when your whole being opens
like petals beneath midnight rain…

You don’t scream.
You exhale.

Soft, shattered,
like silk tearing in water.

A soundless yes
that no one hears but you.

And when your body curls in
on that sacred ache,
when you dissolve
into waves of hush and honey,
you reach—

But only into air.

No weight.
No warmth.
Only the imprint
of something that almost was.

And yet… you’re not alone.

Because the moment passes,
and he lingers.
Not in flesh.
Not yet.

But in the scent of your skin.
The pulse in your wrists.
The dream between your thighs.
The whisper that follows you
into waking.

You carry him now.
Not as memory.
As magnet.

(And you’ll find yourself looking. Not at people. At presence. Watching the quiet ones. Feeling for the man who doesn’t need to speak to make you ache.)

And somewhere in the hush
between your sighs and your sleep,
you begin to wonder
what would happen—

if someday soon…

he carried you.

But is it wonder, really?
Or something quieter?
Something deeper?
A knowing that moves like a current
beneath your skin,
pulling you gently forward
into a moment
that hasn’t happened
and yet already lives
inside your bones.

Because you’re not falling anymore.
You’re leaning.

Tilting into the gravity of him
like a stem toward light.
Like tide toward moon.
Like truth toward lips
finally brave enough to speak.

You feel it now, don’t you?

The weight of the idea.
The hum of what’s next.
The ache that no longer satisfies itself
with words,
or breath,
or silk-threaded sighs
dissolving into bedsheets.

You want more.
Not in fantasy.
In presence.

You want the knock.
The key.
The door that opens to find you
waiting—
not adorned,
not prepared,
but honest.

Wearing nothing
but the pulse in your throat
and the memory of this poem
curled like smoke
around your hips.

And when he enters—
and he will enter—
it won’t be dramatic.
It will be quiet.
The way dusk enters a room.
Soft.
Certain.
Unmistakable.

He won’t speak at first.
He won’t need to.
Because by then,
you’ll have already made your choice.
You’ll have already undone the clasp
around your resistance.
Not for him—
but for you.

Because the idea of not stepping forward?
Of lett