You didn’t ask for this.
And yet—
here it is.
Slipping into you,
soft at first,
like a hum in the distance
you almost mistake for silence.

And still, you lean closer.
Your eyes linger longer.
Something beneath the words
calls you forward—
not with force,
but with inevitability.

Strange, isn’t it?
How a handful of lines
can quiet the noise
you thought you’d carry forever.
How the spaces between them
feel heavier than the words themselves.

You tell yourself—
it’s only a poem.
But even as the thought forms,
your breath slows.
Your chest rises, falls—
slower, deeper.
A rhythm you didn’t choose,
yet one you don’t resist.

And in that rhythm,
you feel him.
Not as an image.
Not as a sound.
But as calm.
A quiet certainty
already inside you,
like gravity itself—
so steady,
so undeniable,
you almost forget
it was ever missing.

You wonder now—
are you imagining him into this,
or was he always here,
waiting in the stillness
for you to notice?

Perhaps you’ve always known
this moment would come.
The unraveling that doesn’t shatter you—
the unraveling that frees you.

Because the longer you linger,
the more your body betrays its secrets.
The shifting of your thighs,
the mouth that tastes dry and sweet at once,
the pulse that stumbles lower,
as though it has always known
what your mind tries to deny.

You remind yourself—
it’s only words.
But then—
why does your body answer
before your thoughts can explain?
Why does your skin
prickle with warmth
at lines that never touched you—
except they already have?

Isn’t it curious
how easily the poem slips
past the part of you that resists,
and awakens the one that whispers yes?
That soft hidden self
you never showed
and always feared.

Every pause feels like breath.
Every silence feels like fingers,
sliding through the folds of your unspoken.
And you can’t quite tell—
is this the poem moving through you,
or is it him?
His quiet calm
inside your longing,
inside your ache,
inside the shame you thought
you would never let be seen.

And isn’t it stranger still—
that the part you feared
might be the part
he was always waiting to touch?

You thought you were reading him.
But hasn’t he been reading you—
all along?

You don’t need to decide
whether this is real or imagined.
Because either way,
your body has already chosen.

And you don’t need to choose
between resisting or surrendering—
because both paths,
you realize now,
lead you here.

So the boundary blurs.
Are you holding the poem,
or is he holding you?
Are you opening to the words,
or has he already
opened himself into you?

Close your eyes—
just for a moment.
Feel how he lingers there.
In the calm between your breaths.
In the warmth rising in your chest.
In the steady presence
that outlasts every other sound.

And perhaps this was always the truth:
It was never just a poem.
It was him.

The one who touches you
without touching.
The one who opens you
without asking.
The one who claims you
not by taking,
but by showing you
the part you were always meant to give.

And isn’t that
the most dangerous part of all?
That it is too late already.
Because the moment you let this in,
you let him in.

And even after the last line fades,
you’ll still feel him.
Not as fantasy.
Not as thought.
But as the quiet calm
inside your own emotions—
the proof that you were his
before you even realized it.

What begins as a poem… doesn’t always stay one.