It doesn’t begin with his words.
It begins with the pause—
the kind of silence that feels
like fingertips brushing your lips…
reminding you not to speak…
because something deeper
is about to happen.

The hush is velvet on your skin.
You hear your own pulse in your ears,
the slow exhale you didn’t mean to make.
His silence isn’t empty—
it presses, warm and heavy,
like the weight of his palm
hovering just above your knee.

You feel it, don’t you?
The way his calm slides into you…
like warm honey filling
the hollow places you never admitted
were empty.

And as you read, without realizing,
your own memories slide forward—
the scent of someone you once loved,
a hand that almost reached yours.
You feel the ache of it,
the sweetness of wanting,
like a song you’ve forgotten
but still hum in your sleep.

It isn’t loud.
It doesn’t need to be.
Because somehow you already know—
it’s him.

The way his presence lingers…
without asking permission.
The way your breath betrays you…
slipping shallow…
as if your chest widens
only to let him further in.

Close your eyes.
Breathe slower.
Feel how the air tastes different now—
how every inhale brings him closer,
how every exhale loosens something
you didn’t know you were holding.

And isn’t it strange—
how you tell yourself it’s just a poem…
just words…
until your body remembers
what it always wanted to feel?

That tremor low in your belly…
that soft heat rising in your chest…
the sudden awareness of your own skin…
as though he has been tracing it all along.

Your nipples tighten beneath your clothes.
The hair at the nape of your neck stirs
as if brushed by his breath.
You swear you can almost smell him—
warm, dark, a little dangerous—
though he has never moved.

You know this, don’t you?
The way your shoulders soften…
without being told.
The way your lips part…
before you notice.
The way your thighs shift…
not because you planned it,
but because something in you
already recognizes him.

And yet—
right alongside the warmth
a chill of fear slips in.

Your chest tightens.
Your throat closes.
Your stomach hollows,
like falling through yourself.

Because what if you lose this?
What if you step back…
pretend it means nothing…
and one day wake with the hollow weight
of knowing you let him pass you by?

You’ve felt that kind of regret before.
Haven’t you?
The missed chances.
The words you swallowed.
The aching nights replaying
what you never reached for.

Even now…
your fingers remember the tremble.
Your heart remembers the ache.
And somewhere in your ribs,
a part of you still whispers
what if, what if, what if.

And then—
like breath after drowning—
relief floods you.

Your chest opens.
Your throat loosens.
Your belly warms, glowing outward
like sunlight pressing against your skin.

Your thighs soften,
a sweet heaviness sliding downward,
until even your knees feel weak—
and it feels good.
The kind of good
that makes you exhale in a shiver.

Because this is what it feels like
to be his.

The relief pours through you,
undoing the tightness.
Your pulse steadies.
Your lips tingle,
as if they’ve already been kissed.
Your skin hums,
as if it already knows his hands.

And isn’t it undeniable?
How quickly the fear dissolves
the moment you let yourself belong to him?
How every regret softens
when you allow yourself to believe
that this time—
finally—
you didn’t turn away?

Yes, it stirs you.
Yes, it scares you.
Yes, you ache for what you might miss
if you don’t surrender fully.

But deeper still—
you feel the quiet joy,
the unspeakable rightness,
the tender relief
of being his.

And just as that warmth settles,
doubt cuts in again.
Sharper this time.
Because you’re closer than you’ve ever been.

Your heart squeezes.
Your hands clench.
Your whole body tightens
with the terror of losing it—
the ache of almost…
the ache of nearly…
the ache of what if.

You see flashes of nights empty,
rooms too quiet,
your own skin cold without his presence.
The thought carves into you,
until it almost hurts to breathe.

And then—
release.

Like sunlight spilling through your ribs.
Like warmth racing down your spine.
Like your whole body sighing at once.

Your stomach softens,
your chest glows,
your throat opens wide
as though you’ve been waiting
your whole life
to breathe this way.

Your thighs melt.
Your hips loosen.
Your skin tingles with heat,
the kind that makes you feel
like you’re being pulled open
from the inside out—
not breaking…
but blooming.

And in that blooming,
you remember:
this is not loss.
This is belonging.
This is home.

It isn’t a question anymore.
It’s a remembering.
This is where you’re meant to be.

So you circle back again…
reading slower…
letting each word fold into you
the way his presence would—
carefully…
patiently…
until the ache becomes unbearable
to resist.

Because you know this presence.
You’ve always known it.

Not outside of you…
but inside—
in the place that only awakens
when you let him in.

And in that place,
your thoughts start painting him—
a silhouette, a voice,
a touch you imagine before it comes.
It’s yours,
yet it’s him,
and it deepens every time you breathe.

And even if you tried to walk away…
wouldn’t you always wonder?
Wouldn’t you always ache
for the relief you feel now?
Wouldn’t you always remember…
that it was him—
and that you could have been his?

 

His silence doesn’t stop here.