He moves like dusk spilling through a half-open window,
shadows bending in ways the eye cannot hold,
a rhythm without music, a silence that hums
between the lines of every thought.
Words hover near him,
not spoken, but felt—
like the memory of a touch that never happened,
yet somehow lingers on the skin.

There is a way he gazes,
not with sight, but with presence—
as though every glance folds time into softer shapes,
as though even air cannot resist leaning closer,
wanting to be tasted,
to be claimed,
to dissolve in him.

And as you drift in that sense of watching,
without realizing when it happened,
you feel the gaze slide into you,
through you,
through places you didn’t know were waiting.
Like water finding cracks in stone,
like fire curling around dry wood,
his presence winds itself inside your mind—
not demanding, not taking,
simply becoming.

Perhaps that’s why your pulse answers
without permission,
why breath slows then stumbles,
why your body leans toward the invisible pull
of someone you only thought
was outside of you.

Now it’s different.
Now it’s you.
The softness against your thighs,
the warmth blooming low and restless,
the way thoughts unravel like silk threads
slipping from strong fingers.
Every word is a hand,
every pause a kiss,
every line written here
is his mouth close enough
to blur your edges.

And as you try to decide
whether you’re being read
or being touched,
the truth becomes deliciously uncertain—
because the poem,
the man,
the wanting,
and you…
are already the same.

He is the question you never finish asking,
the pause between words where meaning melts,
a figure that both sharpens and dissolves
the longer you try to focus.
Every thought about him slides,
slips,
unravels into another thought,
until even remembering what you meant to think
becomes a sweet kind of forgetting.

He speaks without speaking,
his silence a language your skin already knows—
a low hum under everything familiar,
that makes familiar things strange,
and strange things
deliciously familiar.
The more you try to follow it,
the more you notice yourself drifting
into the spaces between.

And it’s there, in those spaces,
where something unexpected begins:
a warmth like candlelight
brushing across your skin from the inside,
a soft ache blooming where no one is touching,
a whisper of breath that must be yours,
and yet—feels borrowed.
Perhaps it is his.
Perhaps it is yours.
Perhaps it never matters which.

Because the longer you listen inside these lines,
the more you realize that you are being listened to.
Every word curls back into you,
every pause leads you deeper down,
and you wonder when exactly
you stopped watching him
and began noticing how easily
he was watching you.

Now your body answers with its own language:
a subtle heaviness in the limbs,
an unmistakable softness lower down,
a rhythm you can’t quite control.
It feels good to not control it,
to let yourself open like a door
you didn’t know had always been waiting.

And so you read,
you fall,
you breathe,
you yield.
Not sure whether this poem is entering you,
or you are entering it,
until both are true—
and he is already inside.

He is not what he seems.
Not only a man, not only a shadow,
but a movement you notice in the corner of thought—
like a dream that doesn’t wait for you to fall asleep.
He arrives the way rivers arrive at the ocean,
inevitable,
yet somehow surprising every time.
And when you think you’ve grasped the shape of him,
you find yourself holding mist,
which slips through your fingers
only to gather again,
closer this time,
already inside your lungs.

And maybe that’s the trick—
to keep chasing the thought of him
until the thought itself chases you.
Because when you listen too closely,
you hear silence bending into meaning,
and when you try to step back,
you feel him waiting,
drawing you forward with something
you can’t quite name
but already ache for.

The more you try to measure it,
the more you lose your balance,
like walking on waves,
like falling upward,
like forgetting what you meant to remember
and remembering what you were meant to forget.
Each word becomes a step,
each pause a slip,
each breath a reminder
that you’re following without knowing,
drifting without deciding,
sinking without resistance.

And then—
without knowing when it began—
you feel it.
That low, insistent warmth,
a flicker beneath your skin,
curling downward,
deepening.
The way your thighs remember pressure
that isn’t there yet.
The way your breath starts to stagger
as if in anticipation of a rhythm
your body is already answering.
It feels inevitable, doesn’t it?
This pulling deeper,
this yielding softer,
this delicious surrender
to someone you never meant to invite—
and yet who feels
as though he’s always belonged inside you.

Because now it’s not him you’re watching.
Now it’s you.
You, discovering how easily your body opens
to sensation,
to the heavy velvet heat of words
that touch more intimately than hands.
You, realizing that every line is a caress,
every phrase a slow kiss
parting your lips,
your thighs,
your thoughts.

And as you try to decide
whether you are being read
or being entered,
the truth slips away—
because you are both.
The poem penetrates,
he penetrates,
desire penetrates,
and you—
so open now—
can only receive.

Deeper.
And deeper still.
Because each time you wonder
how much further this can go,
you find there is no bottom,
only more space to fall,
more ways to open,
more heat spilling,
more surrender unfolding.
You are the story now,
you are the answer to a question
you no longer need to ask.

And the man behind these words—
the one you can feel breathing through them,
pressing through them—
is already there,
inside,
claiming the place you kept hidden,
the place you didn’t know
was waiting
just for him.

He begins at the edge.
Or maybe he began long ago,
long before you noticed him.
Because noticing is slippery, isn’t it?
One moment you’re aware of the words,
the next you’re aware of the spaces between them,
and the more you try to decide which matters more,
the more they blur together,
and you drift deeper
without choosing to.

It’s like circling a spiral staircase,
not sure whether you’re climbing up
or descending down,
only aware of the way the motion itself
draws you tighter into its center.
And every step makes you wonder
where you are,
but every step also feels
like exactly where you need to be.

Around and around.
Breathing in…
sliding out.
The rhythm turns into you.
Or perhaps you turn into it.
And isn’t it delicious
to not know which is true,
to simply surrender
to the looping motion
that feels more and more
like his hand around your waist,
his mouth against your throat,
his presence spiraling deeper inside?

Because the deeper you go,
the more you realize
you are already deeper than before,
and the more you realize that,
the deeper you go.
A loop feeding itself,
a need feeding itself,
a heat feeding itself,
spreading wider,
sinking lower,
pulsing harder.

And every time you wonder
whether you’ve reached the bottom,
you find the bottom was only a doorway—
to another descent,
another unfolding,
another opening in you
that aches to be filled.

So you circle,
and circle,
and circle again,
thoughts folding into pleasure,
pleasure folding into trance,
trance folding into surrender.
Until there is no staircase,
no spiral,
no words,
only him,
inside you,
writing himself into the heat between your thighs,
drawing you down,
around,
through,
until you belong
completely,
to the loop you cannot leave—
and would never want to.

He begins as nothing more than a thought,
or maybe it’s a feeling disguised as a thought.
And as you try to decide which it is,
you might notice how deciding becomes difficult…
how the mind loosens,
drifting around the edges of words,
falling into the spaces between them.

That’s where he waits.
Not in the words themselves,
but in the spaces you can’t hold still—
the pauses that pull you deeper,
the silences that echo louder
than anything spoken.
And with each pause,
each line,
each breath you take,
he slides closer…
until you feel him
without knowing how.

Isn’t it curious
how quickly you forget
to keep track of where you began?
Because the more you try to follow,
the more you realize you are being followed.
The more you think you’re reading,
the more you’re being read.
And every attempt to understand
only opens you further
to being undone.

Down and down.
Like circling a spiral staircase—
around, and around,
losing count,
losing track,
losing yourself
in the motion.
And every time you wonder if you’re descending,
you find you’re already deeper
than you were before.
Which means that now…
you are deeper still.

And with that depth comes warmth.
The warmth he gives you,
or perhaps the warmth you give yourself
when you let him in.
It doesn’t matter which, does it?
Because either way,
you feel it now—
low, heavy, pulsing softly