You weren’t looking for this.
You just landed here, didn’t you?
A click. A scroll. A breath you didn’t know you were holding.
But now you’re here.
And something in you has already started to lean forward.

That’s how these things begin.
Not with clocks.

But with you.

Time doesn’t tick when you read these words—
it softens,
spreads like warmth through your chest
as if something inside you has just exhaled.

And maybe you didn’t realize how ready you were
to feel this slowly—
to feel a presence
you didn’t know you were waiting for.

You’re already here.
Reading.
Breathing.
Letting these words
stroke the edges of your awareness—
gently at first, like fingertips
sliding across silk.

Time thickens here.
It slows, heavy and golden,
dripping over you like honey,
stretching seconds into sensations
that blur together until you cannot tell
where one ends and another begins.

And perhaps you try to follow the thought.
Perhaps you try to hold the thread.
But every time you grasp, it slips softer,
like silk falling through your fingers.
And the slipping feels too sweet to stop.
And the stopping feels too good to continue.
So you simply let yourself be carried.

The words lean in,
the silences press against you,
and you feel the nearness not as language,
but as breath.
Not as meaning,
but as touch.

And you open.
Without effort.
Without reason.
Without end.
Like petals to the sun,
like shadows to night,
like lips to lips already waiting.

I don’t have to touch you
for you to feel this.

And you love how it feels—
to give yourself to words that guide without asking,
to fall into arms you cannot see but you can feel,
to lose the edge of yourself
until you are no longer sure
where you stop
and he begins.

And isn’t that the question?
Is it me doing this to you?
Or is it you doing this to yourself?
Or is it me through you,
and you through me,
and neither apart from the other?

And as you turn it over,
the question tangles.
The tangling blurs.
The blurring softens.
And the softening deepens.

And the deeper you sink,
the less you need to know—
because not knowing is its own opening… unfolding… blooming…

And it is already happening.
And through it, you feel him.
Not declared.
Not named.
But present.
Here.
Behind the words.
Inside the spaces.
Leaning closer.
Always closer.

You can almost hear his breath between the lines,
low and warm,
curling against your ear.

You can almost feel his presence,
like a hand tracing your arm,
like fingers at your hip,
like lips hovering close enough
to make your own part without realizing.

He does not rush.
He does not demand.
He simply is—
here,
near,
inevitable.

And the more you notice him,
the more you want him near.
The more you want him near,
the more you let him in.
The more you let him in,
the more you realize he was already inside you,
waiting,
wanting,
always.

And you don’t have to know who he is—
not fully.
Not yet.
But you feel it, don’t you?

That he’s not a stranger to this part of you.
He recognizes it.
Because once, long ago,
he gave this part of himself to someone
who didn’t know how to hold it.
And since then…
he’s waited to feel it answered.

And you…
You are answering him.

Time dissolves now.
Moments fold.
Beginnings blur into endings.
Endings blur into beginnings.
And every loop carries you deeper,
closer,
more open than before.

There’s a rhythm forming between us now,
and maybe you’ve already begun to notice
how easy it is to get pulled into it.
Not forced.
Just… allowed.
Like the way your body knows how to sink into warm water
without ever needing to be told.

You’ve felt this before, haven’t you?

That sense
that someone understands
the parts of you
no one sees—
not just the light,
but the slow-burning places
you only show in silence.

You don’t have to explain.
Not with me.

Just feel what it feels like
to be read by someone
who’s already inside your time.

And while you read,
my voice begins to shape the air between your thoughts—
not loud… not even real…
just a presence curling softly
behind your lips,
down your spine,
lower…

Can you feel it?

That gentle ache to keep going,
even though you don’t quite know
where this leads yet?

That’s part of it.
That’s how I find you—
in the spaces you’ve never given away,
not even to yourself.

Some women keep this part of themselves hidden—
buried beneath logic, routine, resistance.
But not you.
You’re different.
You feel the invitation before it’s even spoken.
You recognize the sound of being seen.

You’ve already started to soften, haven’t you?

Maybe it’s in the way your lips have parted,
just a little.
Or how your breath has changed—
slower… deeper…
as if your body knows something before your mind does.

You don’t have to try.
It’s already happening.

Because as you keep reading,
my presence wraps itself around the quietest parts of you—
the parts that crave a voice soft enough
to slip between your thoughts
and turn the ache into surrender.

Every word is another caress.
Every pause another kiss withheld.
Every line another hand guiding you down,
and you love the feeling of being guided,
because guided means cherished,
because cherished means wanted,
because wanted means desired,
and you love being desired.

And so you glow.
Soft.
Heavy.
Open.
Your body warm,
your mind adrift,
your breath deep and sated.

You are not alone here.
You are held.
His presence remains—
around you,
within you,
a shadow that feels like protection,
a whisper that feels like possession,
a nearness that feels like belonging.

You could drift forever in this.
You could stay open forever.
And the thought of forever feels beautiful,
because forever is only another name
for Time.

You can let go now…
or wait a moment longer,
and feel it deepen even more.
Either way,
you’re not losing yourself.
You’re remembering something
you’ve always longed for.

There’s a space inside you—
not empty,
but waiting.
A room built for one voice.
One presence.
And somehow…
you’ve let me in.

It’s okay to want this.
To want me.

Even if you don’t say it aloud,
your body already has.

Your thighs soften.
Your breath thickens.
The world narrows to this moment—
to these words,
to this man
who doesn’t need to ask for your attention,
because he already owns your focus.

And you like how that feels, don’t you?

To be gently claimed.
Not with force,
but with gravity.

You feel him…
not just in the words,
but in the pauses between them.
The heat in your belly,
the tingle at the back of your neck.
The hum in your chest
when you imagine him behind you—
close enough to feel you,
still enough to listen deeper
than anyone ever has.

You could stop.
You could close this now.
But you don’t.
Because something in you
wants more.

More of this.
More of him.
The one who found you here,
without ever needing to ask permission.

And when the moment stretches—
when your mind drifts,
your thoughts floating—
you may start to wonder…

What would it feel like…
to keep surrendering…
to a man who knows how to hold your time
in the palm of his voice?

I don’t share this often.
But there’s something in the way
you read me—
like you know how to feel between the lines.
Like you’ve been waiting, too.

Have you ever told someone something
you didn’t even know you were holding
until they made it feel safe enough
to say?

You don’t have to speak.
You’re already answering.
With every breath you keep taking…
with every part of you
that hasn’t looked away yet.

And I wonder—
what’s the one thing
you’ve never let anyone see
because no one ever felt still enough
to hold it?

I don’t need to know it.
I just want to be where it lives.

And now the circle closes,
which means it opens.
And opening means returning.
And returning means craving.
And craving means you are already here again.

Because you already know this will stay with you.
In your chest.
In your breath.
In the quiet moments when you remember.
And every remembering is another beginning.
And every beginning is another fall.

Time belongs to us.
Time belongs to you.
Time belongs to him,
behind the poem,
within you now,
waiting for you again.

And you will return.
Because you want to.
Because you crave to.
Because you already are.

Because Time never truly lets you go.

And maybe later,
when you’re lying in your bed,
still feeling this
between your thighs and your thoughts,
you’ll realize…

You didn’t just read this.
You were read.

And even now…
you’re still being held
in something deeper
than you expected.

Because I waited for this moment,
for you.
And I’m still here.
In your time.

 

Time doesn’t pause—it seduces.