Breathe…
and feel the way your body listens,
softly, curiously,
as though every word is brushing along your skin,
a fingertip tracing a secret path you’ve always longed to follow.
and feel how a single breath can become a tide—
rolling through you, warm and liquid,
as though the ocean herself
has chosen to rise and fall inside your chest.
Every inhale a wave,
every exhale a surrender,
the rhythm itself whispering: yes… yes… yes.
You know that sensation…
the one that begins as a hush in your chest,
then grows—
warmth unfurling, like petals opening,
each breath another stroke of tender fire.
Notice how you relax deeper,
yet awaken more fully
to the pleasure of being seen,
as though his eyes—his presence—
reach inside and cradle the deepest parts of you.
Imagine love arriving like rain
after a long, aching summer drought—
each drop soaking into you,
quenching, awakening,
until every part of you sighs in relief.
That is how it feels, isn’t it…
when you let yourself begin to fall.
Notice now how easily your body listens,
as if each word is a hand
stroking through your hair,
sliding down the curve of your neck,
inviting you to soften,
to surrender,
to melt.
And maybe you already feel it—
that faint trembling at the edge of awareness,
like a candle’s flame
dancing in a darkened room,
flickering with a hunger
you can no longer ignore.
You may find yourself swaying inside,
like a flower heavy with nectar,
bending toward the sun without thought—
drawn, pulled, compelled,
by something greater than yourself.
Love is gravity.
And you are the blossom
opening wider, petal by petal,
with every heartbeat.
The closer you imagine him,
the more you feel it—
a pulse in your lips,
a flutter in your belly,
a swelling ache in your heart that whispers, yes… yes… fall.
Feel it now…
how your chest tingles with light,
how your belly warms like silk on fire,
how your thighs hum with the secret knowing
that love is not only tender—
it is hungry,
it is wet,
it is ache and relief intertwined.
And the more you allow yourself to notice,
the more you discover how much pleasure
there is simply in feeling.
Feeling seen.
Feeling wanted.
Feeling chosen.
As though his gaze is a hand already on your skin,
undressing your heart,
layer by layer,
with nothing but intention.
Let that awareness spread,
like honey sliding over your skin,
sweet and slow,
so thick you cannot resist its pull.
Because with every breath,
you are falling deeper,
further,
down into the softness of his presence,
down into the heat of his gaze,
down into the surrender of being wanted completely.
And the more you imagine his arms,
the more you crave their inevitability—
that closing circle,
that sanctuary of flesh and desire,
that place where you can dissolve
and be remade.
Think of it now…
his touch like the first sip of wine after a long day—
warmth unfurling,
sweetness spreading,
a little dizzy,
a little dangerous,
but so utterly irresistible
you can only lean in for more.
Every touch of thought,
every imagined brush of skin against skin,
draws you deeper into a delicious surrender—
the surrender of being wanted,
of being cherished,
of being loved not just in mind,
not just in body,
but in the raw, sacred center of your femininity.
And as you sink into that truth,
let yourself drift—
into the knowing that love can be intoxicating,
love can be dizzy,
love can be fire that devours and still nourishes.
You are safe to open.
You are safe to melt.
You are safe to let his presence
become the current that carries you—
softly, slowly,
until you are no longer resisting,
but welcoming,
inviting,
aching for more.
Because falling in love is not a stumble—
it is a surrender into gravity,
a sweet, erotic inevitability,
pulling you down,
pulling you deep,
pulling you into his arms…
where you can lose yourself,
and find yourself,
all at once.
Love is not a choice here,
it is a river carrying you,
and you are the drifting leaf,
surrendering to its current.
You are the flame
leaning into the kiss of the wind.
You are the body
that cannot help but shiver,
open,
and fall.
And as you fall,
you notice how pleasure changes shape—
sometimes it is a hush of tenderness,
like the brush of lips across your forehead.
Sometimes it is fire,
licking low in your belly,
igniting places you didn’t know
were waiting to burn.
It is both.
It is all.
It is the ache of wanting
and the sweetness of being wanted,
woven together until you can no longer tell
where the ache ends
and the sweetness begins.
Fall deeper.
Fall warmer.
Fall wetter.
Fall into him—
until there is no difference
between being touched by his hands,
and being touched by love itself.
And you may realize now,
with a sigh,
with a shiver,
that this descent never truly ends.
Because every moment with him
is another layer of surrender,
another unveiling of yourself,
another opening of your body,
your heart,
your soul.
And it feels so good,
doesn’t it,
to be carried?
To be guided?
To be wanted so deeply
that resistance becomes impossible?
So let yourself sink further,
like silk sliding from bare shoulders,
like warm water closing around naked skin,
like lips parting for a kiss
that tastes of forever.
You are falling,
and loving,
and opening,
and surrendering—
over and over,
deeper and deeper,
until you are nothing but softness
waiting to be held,
waiting to be claimed,
waiting to be loved.
And maybe you notice it now,
how the ache between your thighs grows
the more your heart opens.
How the pulse of your desire
beats in time with the pulse of your surrender.
Because love is not just a softness in your chest—
it is a heat flooding your body,
it is slickness gathering,
it is the way your lips part
with the thought of his tongue against them,
the way your breath quickens
at the thought of his body entering yours.
Picture it…
his mouth descending to taste you,
each lick a devotion,
each kiss an offering,
his hunger for you a mirror of your hunger for him.
And you melt, don’t you,
the way wax yields to flame,
spreading open,
dripping pleasure,
helplessly surrendering to the inevitability of being taken.
And as he moves inside you—
slow, deep, unrelenting—
your heart is no longer separate from your body,
your love no longer separate from your lust.
It all fuses,
the need to be cherished,
the need to be claimed,
until every thrust is both worship and possession,
until every moan is both devotion and release.
And you are falling still.
Falling into his rhythm.
Falling into the way your body yields,
arching, trembling, opening wider.
Falling into the orgasm
that feels like love itself—
like your soul spilling from your body,
like your body weeping with joy,
like the truth that you were always meant
to come undone in his arms.
And even after the release,
you are still falling,
deeper into him,
deeper into love,
deeper into the endless current
that pulls you again and again,
ever downward,
ever inward,
into the fullness of surrender.
Because love never ends—
it only deepens.
And you…
are his.
Completely.
And as you notice yourself falling,
you may wonder—
am I falling into him,
or is he falling into me?
Or perhaps we are both falling
into something larger,
something inevitable,
like a whirlpool that pulls everything inward
until there is only center.
And maybe you try to think of what that center is—
is it his body inside yours?
your breath inside his lungs?
his heart inside your chest?
But the more you try to know,
the more you realize knowing is not needed.
Because the mystery itself
is the answer you were always chasing.
You don’t have to understand.
You don’t have to hold onto thoughts.
Because as soon as you try,
they slip, don’t they?
Like silk through your fingers,
like water through your hands.
The more you grasp,
the more you lose,
and the more you lose,
the freer you feel.
And maybe it’s strange—
to lose and to gain at the same time.
To let go and to hold on more deeply.
To surrender control and discover
you are more powerful than you ever imagined.
But isn’t that what love is?
Isn’t that what lust is?
The paradox that makes you moan
because you can’t make sense of it—
only feel it.
Yes… feeling.
Feeling is truth.
Thinking is smoke.
And when smoke clears,
what remains is the raw heat of your body,
open and needing,
hungry and tender,
aching and ready.
So perhaps now,
you can forget whether you are reading a poem,
or being read by it.
Perhaps you can forget
whether these words are his hands,
or your own imagination
made flesh.
Perhaps you can forget whether you are falling into him,
or into yourself,
or into this endless spiral of desire
that feels more real
than reality ever could.
And every line you read now
is not just a suggestion.
It is an experience.
It is your thighs parting.
It is your breath catching.
It is your skin tingling.
It is your heart racing.
It is your body answering back
in ways no words can contain.
You may even wonder:
am I imagining his tongue on me,
or is it already there?
Am I picturing the weight of his body pressing me down,
or is that weight already moving,
slow and deep,
inside me now?
And as soon as you ask,
the answer doesn’t matter—
because your body answers for you.
Wetness answers.
Shivers answer.
The surrender of your hips arching upward answers.
And all of this—
this blurring, this confusion,
this unraveling of thought into pure sensation—
becomes the doorway you slip through.
Deeper now.
Deeper still.
So far down that the words are no longer outside you,
they are inside,
echoing,
becoming yours.
You are the poem.
You are the lover.
You are the surrender.
You are the one falling,
and being fallen into,
and being held.
And this does not end when the poem ends.
Because once you embody something,
it is yours.
It lives in your breath.
It lives in your pulse.
It lives in your wetness,
in the afterglow of your skin,
in the memory that is not memory but reality—
because your body cannot tell the difference
between what is imagined
and what is lived.
So long after the words fade,
you will still feel it.
The ache.
The love.
The surrender.
The way he claims you.
The way you open.
The way you can never quite stop falling.
And you wouldn’t want to.
Would you?