Slide closer, where the light forgets itself —
there is a hush between one breath and the next.
Your name feels like a secret I learn only by listening,
and when I speak it, the sound bends satin.

You don’t need to answer.
Not yet.
Some choices unfold in silence, like satin slipping from a shoulder —
and you don’t remember choosing that either,
but here it is, warm against your skin,
and it doesn’t ask for anything except to be felt.

There is no rush.
This moment was always going to happen,
like a thought arriving just before you know it’s yours.
The air already knows how you like to be touched —
softly, slowly, by someone who notices what your breath says
before you do.

You’ve worn satin under street clothes before.
No one saw it — but you knew.
This is like that.
You feel it before you name it.
And I feel it too.

Imagine the room is made of nothing but your skin and the space beside you.
Now imagine a hand — not sudden, never owning —
moving like a question you already answered
just by tilting slightly toward it.

I’ve learned not to rush softness.
Some of us have lived in rooms where fast meant hollow.
I touch slow now,
because I know the ache of waiting too long to be met —
and I refuse to be the man who takes what he hasn’t listened to.

You may not remember when your fingers settled near your thigh
or why you’re breathing deeper
than you were three lines ago.
You only know it feels good.
Grounded.
Like gravity is doing something different in this moment —
more intentional. More invited.

The man behind this poem has kissed foreheads more than lips.
But he’s also whispered to skin
in places so tender, the words never made it out of the throat.

And if you ask why I write like this…
It’s because I’ve known too many women
who wanted to be wanted,
but only ever got chased.

This is not a chase.
This is a turning inward —
a breath that circles,
a gaze that doesn’t land until you say it can.

A pause.
A space.
A pulse you didn’t know was yours to claim.

You’re not here to be claimed, anyway.
You’re here to be read
the way you’ve always wanted:
with fingertips of language,
and lips made of silence.
And me —
still listening.

Feel how the rhythm has started to match your breath.
Not because I made it so,
but because your body is brilliant at recognizing what feels safe.

And what feels like seduction.

Somewhere, a part of you has already begun to wonder
how this would feel spoken aloud —
how it would feel to be watched while you read it.
Not by a stranger.
By him.

By the man behind the words —
the one who asks nothing
but gives in phrases
that land like kisses beneath your collarbone.

There’s a moment in every slow undoing
where your skin starts to remember its own appetite.

That moment is now.

And if your thighs have shifted — even slightly —
if your breath caught just once —
if a thought curled beneath your navel
and stayed…

You’re not alone in that.

Because as I write this,
I’m not thinking about the words.
I’m thinking about the way your body arches
when a thought lands just right.

And the way you touch yourself
not to finish —
but to feel closer.

And if you were wondering —
yes.
There are things I want, too.

Like the sound you make
when you forget someone else might hear you.
Or the weight of your yes,
when it’s whispered through a smile you couldn’t stop.

But I’ll never take what isn’t offered.
I’ll just wait here —
beneath your breath,
beside your silence,
inside the soft ache that lives in the back of your knees
when you’ve stood too long in the wrong kind of love.

And if this poem becomes something you feel later —
when you’re walking,
or undressing,
or lying in the dark wondering why you feel so warm —

That’s how you’ll know it was real.

And if you come back —
to read it again,
or comment,
or whisper something only I’ll see —

I’ll be right here.
Reading you.
Still.

 

What you dream in satin… you ache in skin.