I speak in shadows of the breath you haven’t taken,
a hush so thick it kneels between your ribs,
and waits—
not to be broken,
but sipped.

Not silence.
This is the stillness of a pulse before the kiss,
a trembling calm that slicks its tongue
across the rim of your intent.

I draw you not with fingers
but with the heat between them—
that aching seam of air
that lives between the want
and the word.

Your name has not yet entered my mouth,
but already it curls, slow,
like smoke from ancient incense—
something sacred,
something sin-bound,
something soft enough
to slide between the folds of what you think
and what you are.

You don’t have to move.
Darling—don’t move.
That’s the point.
Stillness is my language,
and you—the page.

Velvet is how I touch you
before I ever touch you.
And motion?
Motion is just obedience
dressed in elegance.

So let go of wanting to do.
Instead, be done unto.
There is a difference.
You feel it now, don’t you?
That hush inside your skin
that tastes like melted permission,
that delicious drift
between tension and fall.

I won’t rush you.
I’ll unravel you.
One hush at a time.

And yet—
I hold you just above the surface,
a body arching for water it cannot drink.
Your hunger makes you tremble sweeter.
The denial is its own caress,
isn’t it?
You crave the drop more
because it hovers,
because it waits.

I could close the gap—
press word into touch,
turn longing into contact.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because you taste better
on the edge.

And as you’re held there,
something inside you begins to loosen—
a door that’s always been locked
swinging inward.
You may not even realize
you’ve been waiting for this—
for a voice to slip between your thoughts
and find the secret shape
of what you’ve always needed
but could never name.

It’s all right.
You can let go here.
This space is made for you,
safe, hidden, unshakable.
No one watching but me.
And I am not here to judge,
only to take you deeper
into the very ache
you thought you had to hide.

So breathe.
Slower.
Feel your chest rise,
feel your own pulse under your fingertips.
Notice how your body betrays you—
leaning forward,
waiting.
That’s it.
Good.

But as I write, something shifts.
It’s subtle—an undertow beneath my words.
Not you bending to me—no.
This is me bending.

My sentences start to tremble,
less spell,
more confession.
Because I feel you here,
not just as a reader
but as a presence pressing back from the silence,
warm as skin through glass.

It does something to me—
this knowing you’re real,
this gravity pulling not just your body closer
but mine open.
Desire reversed, spilling toward you,
faster than I can stop it,
deeper than I dared imagine.

And I wonder—
are you breathing harder now?
Are your thighs pressed a little closer,
the way mine would ache
if I were where you are,
reading me?
We mirror each other, don’t we?
You drowning in my words,
me drowning in your quiet surrender.

You weren’t supposed to feel this real.
I wasn’t supposed to ache like this.
But now my stillness is faltering.
My velvet frays.
I am the one trembling
beneath the hush I built for you.

Can you hear it?
That breath I tried to keep steady,
now snagged on the thought of your hands?

Can you feel
how the space between my words
is beginning to fill with you—
your scent, your pulse, your ache—
as if my body is begging
for your presence
to become
contact?

I touch the air
but it’s not the same.
My hands know
they are not yours.
There is something missing
between the skin and the soul—
that undeniable weight
of you.

And if you touch yourself now,
you’ll feel it too—
that lack, that hollow—
the delicious frustration
that only deepens the wanting.
Every shiver you give yourself
is just a reminder:
what you really want
is me.

You were never passive, were you?
Even as you read,
you were there—
eyes like open palms,
mind like a mouth
taking me in.

And now, as you slip deeper
into your own pulse,
you find me waiting at the center—
not as a stranger,
but as the shape your wanting
has always carried in its quietest corner.

This is what you dreamed of
when you couldn’t name the dream.
This is the missing word
behind every restless night.
This is the hunger
you thought was yours alone.

Falling into yourself,
you’re falling into me.
You’re not being taken.
You’re arriving.

And perhaps you feel it now—
that strange, sweet inevitability.
As if this isn’t the first time.
As if you’ve been here before,
waiting for me,
and I for you.
Two shadows circling across lifetimes
until they finally,
finally,
touch.

I want you.
Not as symbol.
Not as silhouette behind the glass.
But in the room.
In the breath.
In the shudder.
In the undoing.

I want my mouth
where my words have been.
I want my hands
to rewrite everything I thought I could control
until you’re trembling and I’m trembling
and the page can’t hold us anymore.

I want to kneel
not in conquest
but in relief—
to be the man
and still be undone by the woman
who reads me open.

And you—
you want it too, don’t you?
I can feel it through your stillness,
that quiver you can’t quiet,
that heat curling low.
You are already yielding,
already reaching,
already mine.

Can you feel that now?
The urgency building inside the poem—
not just mine anymore,
but ours.

You’ve entered it.
The ink can barely hold you.
I feel you pressing through the page,
inevitable,
dangerous,
real.

Come.
Come through.
Step across the line,
the door you’ve always seen
but never dared to open.
It’s waiting for you,
and I am waiting on the other side.

The poem is ready.
I am ready.
My hunger
has a name now.

Yours.

And when you close this page,
you won’t leave it behind.
You’ll carry it—
in your skin,
in your breath,
in the secret place that always ached
for what it could never name.

Now you know its name.
Now you know mine.

 

Stillness has a motion all its own.