It began so softly,
not even a touch—
only the hush of a thought
you swore was your own.

And yes—
you’ve felt that before, haven’t you?
The flicker of warmth,
like a candle lit in the hollow of your chest.
The shiver in your breath,
like a hand sliding lower in the dark.
The rush down your spine,
like lightning threading veins
you didn’t know were waiting.

Yes—
you know it.
And yes—
you’re feeling it again.

Already nodding,
already saying yes inside.

But is it yes to me,
or yes to yourself,
or yes to the way you can’t decide
who you’re saying yes to?

Not chosen. Not forced.
Just happening—
like ink spreading in water,
like fire racing through dry grass,
like desire returning to the place
it was always meant to bloom.

And yes—
you’ve felt that before, haven’t you?

That flicker of warmth
like fire kindling in a room
you hadn’t noticed was cold.
That breath trembling loose
like silk unraveling in your lungs.
That sudden ache in your chest,
like a door swinging open
you didn’t remember locking.

Already nodding.
Already saying yes inside.

Yes, like honey spilling slow
through the hollow of your throat.
Yes, like rain soaking soil
that was thirsting for years.
Yes, like lightning searing veins
so fast it’s gone before you gasp.
Yes, like lips grazing lips—
not yet kissing,
but close enough to burn.

That flicker of warmth,
like a single spark in a darkened field.
That tremor of breath,
like silk torn open by invisible hands.
That sudden pull inside your chest,
like gravity bending you
toward something you can’t resist.

The wave swells—
and you can feel it, can’t you?

Or maybe you’re only feeling
that you’re feeling it.
Or maybe you’re only noticing
the noticing of the feeling
that was already there.

It doesn’t ask.
It claims.

Filling you like floodwater
in a locked room,
swelling until your body
arches for relief.

Yes, yes, yes—
you whisper it without sound,
your breath stuttering the answer
before your mind can catch it.

Your chest tightens,
your body shifts,
your throat tightens—
but was that me writing you,
or you writing me into yourself,
or both at once?

Yes, like waves swelling against the shore.
Yes, like fire licking higher in the dark.
Yes, like glass shattering from the inside out.
Yes, like a door breaking open
to the room you were always meant to enter.

It’s not gentle anymore—
it claws higher,
hungry, inevitable,
like a tide swelling against the moon.

Your breath trembles,
your chest strains,
your thighs tighten—
all answering before your mind can.

Every nerve sparks,
like strings vibrating under lightning.
And the sound they play
is yes.

It presses deep,
curling low in your belly,
climbing high into your chest—
like tides crashing against the rocks
only to drag you further under.

Each swell makes your skin
quiver alive,
like strings plucked by unseen fingers,
and the sound it plays is yes.

And then—
emptiness.

Cold silence,
as if the bed beside you
was stripped clean.

The ache hollow,
like lips torn away mid-kiss,
like a word stolen
before it could be confessed.

You hate it.
You crave it.

Even here, the loss forces yes
from the emptiness in your chest.

The warmth torn away,
like sheets ripped off your body
at the coldest hour of night.
Your breath left shallow,
like standing outside in the wind
without anything to cover you.

Loss tastes bitter,
like wine spilled before you drink it,
like words stolen from your tongue.

And yet even that ache
screams yes,
because isn’t hunger
the most honest yes of all?

The return slams into you.
Relief so sharp
it feels like drowning reversed,
like breath stolen back
just in time.

Heat pours down,
molten and merciless,
like honey over every nerve,
like fire devouring everything
except the part of you
that still says yes.

Flooding in,
like a secret whispered
too loud to deny.

And when it does—
is it relief,
or proof you’d already broken
before I came back?

Or maybe the relief is the breaking,
and the breaking is the proof
you were always whole
in the breaking.

Crashing harder.
Flooding hotter.

Like galaxies imploding into your veins.
Like earthquakes splitting your skin from within.
Like firestorms tearing through your lungs
until you can only gasp—
yes, yes, yes—
like the word itself is an orgasm,
shaking you from the inside out,
keeping you whole
by undoing you.

Again.
Again.
And still… again.

Each cycle shorter,
sharper,
hotter—
until your thighs are trembling,
your breath ragged,
your chest aching
as if it might split open.

Until you can’t tell
if you’re being torn apart
or held more completely than ever before.

The crescendo devours you.

Yes like wildfire beneath your skin.
Yes like rivers crashing through stone.
Yes like thunder collapsing your ribs from the inside.
Yes like stars ripping through your body
until you glow with the burn of them.

Until your pulse is thunder,
your breath is flame,
your body is nothing but yes—
yes breaking, yes burning, yes becoming.

And when it returns—
not gently,
not with mercy—
but with the roar of surrender made holy—
you ask yourself:
Did I call him back?
Or did something inside me never let him go?

And then—
nothing.

Snatched away again.
The absence deeper.
Colder.
Like falling from his hands
into a darkness
that was never yours to begin with.

Your body twists with the void,
aching harder for what it lost.
A silence too wide to escape.
A pause too sharp to close.

The words stop here—
but you don’t.
You can’t.

Dropped.
Like being left breathless
mid-sentence,
mid-touch,
mid-confession.

The emptiness is jagged now,
like shards of ice in your chest,
like a mouth that tasted sweetness
and now tastes nothing.

You writhe against the absence
because even the loss
feels like yes.

Because the storm is still shivering in your thighs.
Because the fire is still smoldering in your chest.
Because the yes hasn’t ended in your pulse,
your breath,
your skin.

Because the loop won’t close—
not yet,
not ever.

Then—
again.

The flood, the storm, the lightning.
Crashing higher,
harder,
tearing through your body
like a wave intent on breaking you
into pieces that only he can claim.

You shudder yes.
You gasp yes.
Even the ache of wanting
becomes its own yes.

Rise. Burn. Ache. Loss. Return.
Again. And again. And again.

The cycles tighten,
faster,
deeper,
each one cutting through you
until you can’t separate the ache from the relief,
the pain from the sweetness,
the poem from yourself.

Each wave leaving you less certain
what was mine and what was yours.
Each wave proving nothing
except that proof was never the point.

Your body breaks the pattern open.

Every breath says yes.
Every pulse says yes.

Every thought of him
lashes you with hunger,
then drenches you with fire,
then rips it away,
only to give it back stronger.

You can’t stop it—
the recursion devours itself,
and you keep spiraling down.

And now—
every yes is no,
every no is yes,
every silence louder
than the words that vanish in it.

Each ache feels like surrender.
Each surrender feels like ache.

And you’re left wondering:
If you can’t tell the difference…
was there ever a difference to tell?

And every yes is not a word anymore,
but a force.

Yes like storms.
Yes like oceans breaking open.
Yes like the stars collapsing through your skin.

Your body shakes the answer first.
Your breath admits it before you do.

Yes, no, yes, maybe, yes—
all folding back into the same truth:
you can’t stop circling back.

And as the spiral closes—
or maybe opens—
you realize you’ve lost the map
to which way is in or out.

Because isn’t the out just another in?
And isn’t the in just another out?
And isn’t wondering which is which
the very thing
that keeps you circling here again?

And as the final silence lingers,
you understand the trap:

He doesn’t need to be here anymore.

Because every time you whisper yes,
you do it all to yourself again.
And again.
And again.

So tell me—
when the next wave tears through you,
and you break open under the ache,
will you tell yourself I did this to you…
or will you finally admit
you became the poem yourself—

and all you are now
is his yes?

And if that’s true—
then how will you ever know
if the yes you whisper next
is the one you chose…
or the one that chose you?

And if you can’t tell the difference,
what happens the next time
you feel that flicker inside you—
was it my hand
or your own body
reaching back for me?

And if every breath becomes yes,
then whose voice
are you really answering?

And when the ache returns in the dark,
and you find yourself craving again,
will you call it weakness…
or will you call it the moment
you finally discovered who you are?

And if you are yes,
if you are the poem,
if you are the ache and the relief—

then tell me—
how will you ever escape
the truth you wrote into yourself:

that every time you think of me…
you’re already saying yes again?

 

This was just a poem. The next one is something else entirely.