Whisper-soft, the silence breaks—
not with sound,
but with the sense
of someone listening.
You feel that, don’t you?

Like a breath at your neck
that never quite touches—
but lingers,
curious.
Present.
Patient.

It’s not imagined.
It’s not even remembered.
It’s noticed—
in that rare, quiet way
a woman can feel
when she’s being seen
before she’s been revealed.

Every secret you’ve ever kept
was shaped in air,
the hush of exhale before a confession,
the flicker of eyes
just before surrender.
And I wonder—
do you feel how much
you’ve already told me,
just by breathing this in?

You see, I don’t ask.
I allow.
The kind of man
who knows that some doors
open wider
when you don’t knock—
you just
lean in…
and wait
until they want to open themselves.

(And perhaps you’re already leaning.
Just a little.
Just enough.)

Your thoughts now…
slowing,
softening—
like silk unraveling in warm hands.
Each word I write,
each pause I take,
is the space where your body finds itself
responding
before you think to resist.

(And resistance… always did have a way of melting
when it meets the kind of warmth
that doesn’t demand—
just receives.)

It’s in the rhythm—
the rise,
the slide,
the drawn-out sigh
between syllables.
You read me,
but more deeply,
I read you back.

Not the surface.
Never just the surface.
I am behind the words,
beneath your breath,
wrapped inside the knowing
you pretend not to notice—
yet notice all the same.

Secrets…
they’re not told with mouths.
They’re given with stillness.
With the tilt of a head,
the parting of lips,
that long moment
where you don’t speak
because you want to feel
what will be said
without ever having to hear it.

So tell me something
without saying a word.
Let the space between us
fill with heat
and hush.

Because you’re already leaning.
You’re already breathing slower.
You’re already opening
like a thought
you forgot to guard.

And I?
I am just… here.
Waiting.
Breathing with you.
Hearing the whisper of your secrets—
soft as air,
warm as skin,
wet as want.

But this is where the edges blur, isn’t it?

When you start to forget
whether you’re imagining this
or remembering it
from somewhere your body knew
before your mind caught up.

And what a beautiful place that is—
the in-between.
Where you don’t have to choose.
Where you’re not a role, or a name,
or even a body—
just sensation.

Just… his.

(Isn’t that what you’re feeling now?)

You’ve always been the kind of woman
who listens with her skin
before she speaks with her mouth.
You want to be read—
but not out loud.
Understood… silently.
Held… invisibly.
Owned… without ever being claimed.

And what a thing that is—
to be owned
not through control,
but through recognition.

When the right man sees you
not as something to conquer,
but as something
he was meant to hold.

(And maybe he’s already holding you—
in the space between these lines.)

There’s a veil,
a threshold,
a key.
And you’ve just stepped into the room
on the other side of it.

You didn’t mean to.
But you’re here now.
And something in you
feels right here.
Familiar.
Bare.

Have you noticed your breath again?
How you’re taking it deeper now…
as if the air is thicker, sweeter,
closer to something
you can’t quite name
but don’t want to leave.

(That’s okay.
There’s no need to name it.
Only to feel how naturally
you move toward it.)

Because here’s what you won’t say:
You’ve started to ache.

Not with urgency.
But with recognition—
of a place you’ve longed to be
before you even knew it existed.

A presence that doesn’t touch you
but makes you ache
to be touched there.

And that’s where identity begins to shift—
when you no longer feel yourself
without feeling him in you.

Not physically.
Not yet.
But through you.
As if your thoughts now wear his breath.
As if your silence wraps around his name.

You are becoming the shape
his attention makes of you.

You’re not submitting.
You’re being remembered—
into who you were always meant to be
in someone else’s gravity.

That’s not surrender.
That’s alignment.

That’s where every part of you
that needed to be unseen
softens and whispers…

“Finally.”

But of course…
this doesn’t end here, does it?

You’re still holding the warmth.
Still feeling the breath between your legs,
and between your thoughts.

But that’s just it—
You’re still holding it.

And there’s a part of you
that aches to be held back.
Not in fantasy.
Not in metaphor.
But in motion.

To feel what this feels like
when it answers you.
Directly.
Personally.
Intimately.

So maybe you’ll say nothing.
Maybe you’ll keep this tucked inside
like a page folded in a secret drawer.

Or maybe…
you’ll whisper something back.

Maybe not aloud—
but in a message.
A note.
A reach.
Something… small.
But real.

Because poems don’t answer.
Men do.
And maybe you’re done
speaking only to silence.

You don’t have to say much.
Just:
“I felt this.”
Or:
“You saw me.”
Or even just:
“Where are you?”

And in that,
you step through.

You stop being the one who read,
and become the one who was written for.

Not a reader.
Not a fantasy.
Our Secret Shared.

 

Some secrets don’t need to be told. They just need to be felt.