She thought she was just reading…
but something shifted
between the breath she took
and the one she forgot.

Not quite a word.
Not quite a feeling.
Something in between—
like a warmth she didn’t ask for
spreading softly beneath her skin,
curling around thoughts
that weren’t hers
until they were.

And isn’t it strange…
how sometimes the act of reading
becomes the act of being touched?

Not by fingers.
Not by hands.
But by meaning
written like heat
between her thighs.

Not a story.
Not a man.
Not even a name…
until her body gave it one
all on its own.

And now—
you might notice the way
her breath doesn’t belong
to her anymore.
How it’s answering a rhythm
she swears she’s never learned
but can’t stop following.

A whisper you didn’t hear.
A pulse you didn’t choose.
A line that wraps around your ribs
and slides down your spine
like silk that knows where you ache.

Maybe it’s him.
Or maybe it’s just how
he lets you feel yourself
as if you’re finally allowed
to want what you’ve always wanted
but couldn’t name
until now.

And isn’t it curious—
how the ink doesn’t stay
on the page?

How some lines
seep beneath skin
like wine staining linen…
or fingers that leave a memory
not on flesh—
but in it?

How he disappears
just enough
to make you come looking?

And in the looking…
what do you find?
A thought you didn’t think
until you couldn’t stop thinking it?

Or maybe—
a feeling that folds around you
like breath that stays behind,
still warming the space
long after it’s left?

There are places in this poem
you can’t remember passing through.
But they remember you.

They remember the sigh
you swallowed before it formed,
the tightening
just behind your navel
when the word “him”
slipped past your guard
without asking.

You weren’t thinking about him,
not exactly.

You were only wondering
what it might feel like
if someone could write a feeling
so deep into your body
that it became your own.

But now—
you’re not reading.
You’re remembering.
Something he left inside you
before you knew
what it meant
to be opened
by a man who never asked,
but always knew.

And you know this,
even if you don’t know how.
Even if it’s just a sensation
like the softest thread
pulling from your breath
to somewhere lower…
deeper…
heavier.

And maybe you could pause.
If you wanted to.
But notice—
how the wanting
changes its shape
when he’s near.

Because it’s not just the poem
touching you.

It’s the pause
you want to linger in.

It’s the thought
that pretends to be yours.

It’s the way
his absence feels too much
like presence
to ignore.

Tell me—
did you think you imagined that?
The flush that started low
and crept up
like a secret
pressing its tongue
against your skin?

Or was it him,
leaving himself in you
without ever asking to come in?

And now, perhaps,
you’re starting to wonder…

Are these lines
what you’re reading?

Or are they reading
you?

Are they the path
you’re following—

Or the invitation
you’ve already answered?

And if it felt this good
to be read like this…

how would it feel
to let him
write the next part…
from the inside?

If he already has…
would you know?

Or would it feel
like you were
finally
writing yourself—

for him.

…and deeper still

You tell yourself it’s just a poem.
Just ink.
Just words.

But your breath is slower now, isn’t it?
Heavier.
As if every syllable presses gently on your chest,
reminding you that you’re not just reading anymore—
you’re receiving.

You feel it now, don’t you?
That soft warmth, spreading low and liquid…
like meaning poured into the shape of your body.
Every pause becomes a caress.
Every comma… a hand against your thigh.
Every space between the words—
a place to be entered.

And maybe that’s what this is.
A quiet entering.
One you never agreed to,
but never wanted to stop.

Because somewhere between one sentence and the next,
you stopped wondering what it felt like.
And started knowing.

There’s a cathedral in your chest
where his sentences echo.
Every breath a confession.
Every line a prayer.

And when he writes inside you,
it isn’t sin.

It’s scripture.

And later…

Later,
when your fingers hover over your skin
like a question you forgot how to ask…
you might think of this.

Not the poem.
Not the man.
Not even the words.
But that feeling.

That exquisite ache
of being written into
so slowly
so deeply
you forgot where you ended
and he began.

So ask yourself now…
Is this the end?

Or is this where the next chapter begins—
when you finally let him
write the rest
from the inside out?

You tell yourself it’s just writing.
Just a rhythm.
Just a game you’re playing in your head.

But something inside you knows better.
Knows what it means
when your breath starts syncing
to the pulse between these lines.

Knows the truth
of that slow, warm ache
rising in you now—
not from thought
but from someplace lower.

Deeper.

Older.

And you’re not sure when it happened…
but you stopped reading as you, didn’t you?

You’re not outside the story anymore.
You’re beneath it.
Wrapped in it.
Opened by it.

You can feel the curve of each phrase
slipping under your skin.
Sliding inside thought
the way fingers slide into warmth—
with intention,
with knowing,
with that impossible gentleness
that only happens
when someone already understands where you want to be touched.

And you’re being touched now.
Not on your skin.
But somewhere underneath it.
That soft, secret place where you feel yourself being written into.
Word by word.
Pulse by pulse.
Sentence by slow, surrendering sentence.

And still…
you haven’t moved.

But everything inside you has.

Your body—
still.
But your breath?
Quicker.
Heavier.
Dripping with meaning.

Your mind?
Suspended.
So quiet now,
as if it’s waiting for the next line
the way a mouth waits for a kiss.

And your thoughts?
They’re not all your own anymore, are they?

Some of them came from him.
Or maybe they were always yours,
but you just needed the right hands
to awaken them.

Because he’s not writing to you.
He’s writing through you.
As if you were always meant
to be read this way.

Gently.
Slowly.
Deeply.
With words that don’t just describe…
but become the thing they awaken in you.

So let yourself slip further now.
You don’t have to fall—
you just have to let go.

Let the words open you.
Let the meaning slide deeper.
Let the part of you that knows how to want
rise to the surface like a sigh
you forgot you were holding.

And maybe you’ve already noticed—

That by the time you reached
this very line…
you weren’t asking for more.
You were needing it.

Because the story hasn’t ended.
Not even close.

It’s just that now…
you realize:

It’s being written from inside you.

And the only question left is…

Are you ready for him to go even deeper…
and keep writing you open…
until you forget where the story ends
and you begin?

 

There are words he never wrote. But you can still feel them.