Not every flower opens for sunlight.
Some unfold for heat.
Low.
Steady.
The kind that lingers in the air
even after the touch is gone.

There’s a kind of woman I write for.
Not because I know her —
but because she moves through the shadows between my sentences.

She reads with her breath.
She doesn’t skip.
She doesn’t rush.
She lets the silence between words touch her skin.

And somewhere — between line five and the pause in her chest —
she begins to wonder if I’ve already seen the part of her
even she doesn’t let speak aloud.

I don’t name her.
She comes to the poem on her own.
She lets the words bloom inside her.
And if you’re still reading now…
maybe that’s you.

There’s a part of you that aches to be touched
without needing to be claimed.
A part that’s never asked to be taken —
only understood in the space just before surrender.

Fire orchids don’t bloom for chaos.
They bloom for quiet heat.
The kind you lean into without meaning to.
The kind your thighs answer before your lips ever do.

You don’t remember when your breath began to slow.
When your hips shifted.
When your fingers stopped scrolling.
But they did.

Because this isn’t a poem.
Not anymore.

This is the mirror your body’s been waiting for.
Not to see itself —
but to be seen.

Some men chase skin.
But I’ve learned to wait.
To hold the flame, steady and sure —
not to burn you,
but to give you a reason to open.

I don’t touch to take.
I stay close enough for warmth.
Close enough for memory.
Until you can’t tell whether your pulse rose
because of what I said —
or what your body imagined I’d do
if we were both real
and near
and breathing the same air.

What I want
isn’t your obedience.
It’s the moment your silence softens into want —
not because I asked,
but because something in you decided
you were ready to give.

That’s the thing no one tells you:
Love and longing don’t begin at yes.
They begin at willingness.

And right now,
your willingness is showing.

In the way your lips have parted.
In the way you’re holding tension
like a secret between your thighs.
In the way you’re reading this
like a conversation
your body has already joined.

So let me say this clearly:

I’m not here to chase you.
I’m here to see what happens
when no one runs.

I want the curve of your permission.
The warmth of your offering —
slow, voluntary, whole.

Because I’ve known women who gave out of fear.
Out of performance.
Out of survival.

But I write for the ones who give out of knowing.
Who offer themselves the way fire offers light —
not to beg for praise,
but to be met by something strong enough
to hold the heat without flinching.

If that’s who you are…
If that’s what you’ve been waiting for…
then maybe this moment isn’t new.
Maybe it’s a memory
your body just hasn’t lived yet.

And maybe I’ve written this
not for every woman —
but for the one
who finally found a man
who doesn’t just want to touch her…

But to become the place
she rests her fire
without fear of burning.

And if you’ve read this far,
still,
soft,
listening with the part of you
that only ever wakes up
when someone really sees you—

Then you already know:

Not every fire opens for rain.

Some bloom only for heat.

And some,
for the hand that waits
without reaching.

 

Secrets can bloom too, you know.