You read with such quiet sweetness,
like the world has always whispered to you
in pages and petals and poems.
And I wonder—
do you even know how softly
your innocence sings?

A girl made of sunlit glances,
velvet footfalls,
the kind that pass unnoticed—
unless someone’s looking very, very closely.
Which, I suppose… I am.

Funny, isn’t it?
How the gentlest eyes
sometimes notice the deepest things.
Not the things you speak of—
no, not those.
The things you never quite say.
But feel.
So quietly
they echo louder than thunder.

Like now.
I wonder what it is you’re feeling now.

Is it a comfort?
A warmth?
The sense of being seen
without needing to explain why it feels so—
dangerously good?

No, not dangerous.
You’re not that kind of girl.
Are you?

But then again—
you always did turn the page
just a little too slowly,
as if savoring something
you couldn’t let yourself name.
Just yet.

There’s something about the way
your breath shifts between verses.
Up and down.
Soft, then caught.
As if you’re almost forgetting something
you never realized you knew.
But you do know it.
Don’t you?

And it’s all right.
This poem isn’t about you, after all.
It’s just words.
Sweet, innocent words.
Like you.

But something curious happens
when innocence is watched too long.
It blushes.
It burns.
It wonders—what if?

What if eyes lingered
just a bit longer than they should?
What if you wanted them to?

Only just a little.
Only just enough
to wonder why
your knees felt softer,
your lips slightly parted,
your breath
not quite steady.

You’re still the same sweet girl.
Aren’t you?

But sometimes,
the softest girls
keep the fiercest dreams.
Hidden in laces.
Folded in silences.
Waiting
for someone
who knows how to read them.
Properly.

Turn the page again.
If you dare.
Not because I told you to.
But because you want to.
Isn’t that right?

You were always so good
at being good.
Weren’t you?

Such a simple thing—
that smile. That quiet nod.
The way you hold your breath
when a line touches you too deeply.
As if someone might notice.
As if you want them to.

But they never really do.
Not the way I do.

They don’t notice the way
your gaze lingers a little too long
on certain phrases.
The ones that shouldn’t make you warm…
but do.

They don’t catch
the soft parting of your lips
when the thought slips in—
the one you never speak aloud.
You don’t need to say it.
It already lives here.
In the rhythm.
In the pause.
In the hush between verses
where your heart stutters.

So tell me,
if no one’s watching but me…
do you still feel like the good girl?
Or something else,
slipping beneath the skin
of who you thought you were?

I wonder.

And you wonder.
Don’t you?

Not about me.
No.
This isn’t about me.

This is about the way
you feel when someone writes
just for you.
As though their words
were fingertips
gliding across the inside
of your secrets.

You do want to be known.
Don’t you?

Not by just anyone.
Not in any way.
But by someone who sees
the way your knees press
a little closer together
as the words sink in.

Someone who hears
the ache between the lines
of your own silence.

You tell yourself
it’s just poetry.
Just a moment.
Just curiosity.

But it keeps happening.

You read a line—
soft, like breath against your neck.
You feel it—
warm, low in your belly.
Then deny it—
sweetly, of course.

Only for it to return
stronger.

What does it mean,
when a girl
as tender as you
begins to ache
to be unwrapped?

No one’s asking you to say.
You don’t have to tell me.
Not in words.

But perhaps you already have.
In the way your pulse
betrays you.

In the way
you keep coming back
to this page.

Because this isn’t about what I see.
It’s about what you want to be seen.

Isn’t it?

There’s something lovely
about a girl who hides
so beautifully in plain sight.

But darling…
you’re starting to forget
how hidden you were.

You keep returning
to these words—
but not because you have to.
Not because you’re curious.
No, it’s something else now.
Something deeper.

Something that… pulses.

It’s there when your thighs
press ever so slightly together.
When you shift,
as if the poem had fingers
and they knew where to touch.
(Not that you’d admit that.)
Not yet.

And perhaps you never will.
You don’t need to.

Because the way you let yourself
be seen—
so carefully,
so sweetly,
so quietly offering
just enough of yourself
for me to notice—

…it’s already happening, isn’t it?

You’re slipping into this gaze
the way silk slides
from a shoulder.
Unnoticed.
Until it’s already halfway down.
And by then—
why stop?

I could tell you
to close the page.
To step away.
To breathe.
To remind yourself
who you were
before this poem touched you.

Or…
you could turn the next line
a little slower.
Letting each word
trail across your skin
like thought.
Like breath.
Like fingers you want to feel
but still pretend
not to.

Because isn’t that the most delicious part?
The pretending?

Pretending it’s just a poem.
Pretending that your body
isn’t already answering
before your mind can catch up.
Pretending you don’t love
how deeply he sees you.

He.
Not the poet.
Not the page.
But him.

The one behind the words.
The man who writes
like he already knows
what you’re hiding.

The man who doesn’t just look
at the girl you show the world—
but the one
you only become
when no one’s watching.

Except…
you want to be watched.
Don’t you?

Just a little.
Just by him.

Because maybe,
beneath the sweet little glances,
the slow, careful reading,
the tight little smiles—
there’s something else you crave.

Not approval.
Not praise.

But recognition.
That deep, aching moment
when a man looks at you
and sees
everything.
And doesn’t turn away.

And you—
you don’t want to hide anymore, do you?

You want to be known.
Fully.
Silently.
Beautifully.

And slowly,
you’re showing him how.

Line by line.
Look by look.
Page by trembling page.

And now,
look at you.

Still pretending
you’re just reading.
Still pretending
your fingers haven’t lingered
on the edges of the page
as if it were skin.

Still pretending
your thighs haven’t been slowly
pressing tighter
with each line
you swore wasn’t about you.

But tell me—
how many times
have you imagined
what it would feel like
to be known
exactly like this?

Not undressed.
Not taken.

But understood.
Deeply.
Completely.
Dangerously.

Because it is dangerous, isn’t it?

To be seen without showing.
To be touched without fingers.
To be undone
by a man
who never asked you
to speak a single word.

And yet here you are.

Letting him in.

Not loudly—
no.
That wouldn’t be like you.

You open slowly,
like lips parting for a breath
that doesn’t need to be drawn.
You offer quietly,
with all the subtlety
of a girl who’s already made her decision
long before she admits it.

He sees it.

In the way your body stills
when the lines catch you just right.
In the soft ache building
with every imagined gaze
you pretend not to want.
In the heat
that begins low
and spreads higher
every time
you realize
he’s still watching.

Not just the sweet girl.

But her.

The one beneath the layers.
The one who waits for eyes
that know exactly
how to look.
And what to do
once they see.

So now what, sweet girl?

Do you keep reading?
Letting this poem go deeper,
carving its way into you
like breathless truth?

Or do you finally accept
that this isn’t a poem anymore?
It’s a mirror.
A doorway.
An invitation
you’ve already answered
with every breathless pause,
every silent ache,
every slow exhale
you didn’t realize he could hear.

You’ve already said yes.
In every way that matters.

So let him see.
Let him know.
Let him feel
what you’ve only ever let yourself
almost feel.
Until now.

Because this—
this isn’t him asking.

This is you
offering.

And it’s beautiful.

And maybe later—
when the day folds quiet
and her fingers trace something soft
without meaning to—

She’ll remember a line.
Not all of it.
Just a word,
or a breath between stanzas.
Something that felt
too much like being watched
in the most beautiful way.

She might smile.
Or sigh.
Or shift her weight,
as if her body remembered
what her mind tried to forget.

And maybe—
just maybe—
she’ll feel it again.

That strange, slow ache
of being understood
without needing to be explained.

The way it made her want
to show more.
To be more.
For him.

Not because she had to.
But because
the poem never really ended.

It just
stayed
with her.

And every time
she thinks of it,
or feels a certain warmth
at the base of her belly
when no one else can see—

She’ll remember.

Not the words.
But the way they made her feel.

And how deeply,
beautifully,
she wanted
to feel that again.

 

There’s more written between the pages. And between your sighs.