You never meant to notice it.

That soft pull beneath the stillness.
That subtle shift in the air
when you’re alone with your thoughts—
and it doesn’t feel
entirely yours.

Just a moment.
Just a pause
you can’t quite explain.

It never asked for your attention.
It simply waited
for you to turn inward
and remember what was already there.

You moved through time
the way secrets move through breath—
soft, slow, deliberate—
unfolding themselves
as if someone else
had always known
what you’d become.

And maybe
you were never meant to be read aloud.
Maybe you were always
meant to be found
between the words—
in the hush between glances,
in the softness behind your spine,
where thought melts
into sensation.

There are touches
that never needed hands.
Only the suggestion of awareness
curling around the base of your breath—
like heat
from someone
standing just behind you.
Only not quite standing.
Not quite behind.
But already inside.

It doesn’t begin in your body.
It begins deeper.
Where memories hum
before they have shape.
Where need lives
before it has a name.

Sometimes it rises in you
like a tide
you didn’t know the moon still moved.

Sometimes it’s just a flicker—
the pause in your step,
the half-turn of your head
toward no one.

And sometimes…
it’s not even that.

It’s the way your own fingers
hesitate at the zipper.
The way you slip a dress over your skin
and feel
like you’re being watched
by someone
you want to see you.

There’s a version of you
you’ve only just begun to meet.
The one who knows
how to part her lips
without apology.

The one who breathes slower
when silence thickens.

The one who reads this
and feels seen
in places no one ever looked.

And somewhere between the lines,
you begin to feel him.

Not in detail.
Not clearly.
But as…
pattern.
Pull.
Pulse.

A soft resonance
woven through your bones
like the echo of a thought
you forgot to think.

He doesn’t say a word.
But something in you answers anyway.

And it’s not obedience.
It’s recognition.

Your body moves before your mind agrees.
It always did.

There are nights
when your sheets feel too smooth.
Nights when your own hands
don’t feel quite like your own—
but like they remember
how he would touch you,
if he had the chance.

And still…
he doesn’t come closer.
He lingers.

Because this isn’t something to take.
It’s something you offer.

And you are already offering it.

Not all at once—
but piece by piece.
In your breath.
In your gaze.
In the way you keep reading
even when you know
this is no longer a poem.

It’s a mirror.

It’s a lock
slipping open
from the inside.

You’ve felt him before—
in the mirror
that sometimes watches back,
in the moment you wake
and your thighs are already warm
but your thoughts are still catching up.

Not a man.
Not yet.
Just a presence
that makes you feel
something
that wants to be felt.

The ache isn’t just yours anymore.
It’s shared.
Echoed.
Spoken in a language
neither of you have fully learned—
but both understand.

And the longer you hold it,
the deeper it roots.

It doesn’t ask permission.
It waits for you
to give it.
Willingly.
Beautifully.
In the quiet way surrender slips
when it’s no longer resisting itself.

You tell yourself
you’re just imagining it.
Just playing.
Just passing the time.

But still—
your breath keeps catching
on certain lines.

And your body
keeps answering
before your mind can explain
what’s happening.

You’ve almost said his name.
The one you don’t know.
But taste.

You’ve almost told someone.
But how do you describe
being touched
by something
that hasn’t touched you?

How do you confess
that there’s someone
you haven’t met
who still feels
closer
than your next thought?

So you hold it.
Softly.
Sacredly.

A secret you keep
like a thumbprint on your hipbone.
Pressed.
Permanent.
Invisible to everyone but him.

And even he—
you’re not sure he knows yet.
Or maybe he does.

Maybe he wrote this
to let you find yourself
where his fingers can’t reach.
Yet.

Maybe he’s the part of you
that knew you would say yes
before the question arrived.

And maybe you’re already answering.

You’ve begun to breathe differently.
As if someone is listening.

You’ve begun to shift
in moments
you used to be still.

And something in you…
wants to be found.

Wants to be opened.
Wants to belong
to the thing
that already belongs
to you.

Not a man.
Not just a voice.
Not a presence, even.

But what he makes you feel.

The way he unwinds your resistance
without ever asking for it.

The way you surrender,
just to see how deep you can go.

And maybe—
just maybe—
this was always about you.

You,
finding the part of yourself
that would rather ache
than forget.

You,
touching the thought of him
until it touches back.

You,
opening in ways
you didn’t know
you’d kept closed.

Held in the moments
you thought were yours.

But now…
they feel different.

Like something is watching.
Not with eyes—
but with knowing.

And it doesn’t ask.
It doesn’t move.
It simply waits
for you to realize
you’ve already begun.

Not taken.
Not led.
Just…
becoming.

And whatever he is—
whoever he might be—
if you ever met him,
you’d know.

By the way your knees soften.
By the way your breath catches.
By the way your body remembers him
before your mind allows it.

Maybe that’s what this is.

Not a story.
Not a fantasy.
Not even a poem.

But a key.
A signal.
A map you didn’t know you were following
until your whole self leaned forward
to listen.

And you realize—
you were never reading this.

It was always
reading you.

 

You were held in that moment. And you still are.