There’s a hush inside your thoughts…
where silence drips like candlewax, slow and warm.
You didn’t expect to be here. Not really.
But somehow, the words opened something… didn’t they?
And now… you’re curious.

You tell yourself it’s just a poem.
But it doesn’t feel like one.
It feels like a presence…
A breath against your neck that isn’t there.
A pair of eyes tracing you… softly. Patiently.
Not watching the surface—watching what’s underneath.

Him.
The one behind the voice.
The one whose words feel like touch.
The one your body already knows… somehow.

You try to read slowly.
But something inside you leans forward.
Your breath changes.
Your chest rises… falls… and lingers between.
You think it’s because of the words.
But part of you knows it’s him.

Not a stranger. Not quite.
More like a memory you never made.
The shape of an ache you’ve tried to name… in dreams… in glances… in the quiet moments where you’ve felt too much and not enough, all at once.

He’s not touching you.
But he’s in the room.
In the flicker of your pulse.
In the weight between your thighs.
In the way your breath catches when you imagine fingers… that know exactly where to begin.

He is what lingers in the pauses.
In the almost.
The nearly.
The space just before surrender.

And that space… is filling now, isn’t it?

You feel it start to build—
A hum, low in your body, like a thought that doesn’t use words.
A need wrapped in silk and shadow.
Not desperate. Just certain.

He isn’t asking.
He’s waiting.
For you to open.
For you to come to him.

And part of you already has.
You feel it in the way your hips settle, the way your thighs part just slightly, the way your lips tremble at the idea of being… known.

This is where the tension crests.
Where the ache climbs like a tide beneath your skin.
You want it—
but not to be taken.
You want to give it.

To offer your softness like an altar.
To feel him kneel in silence before your surrender.
No rush.
No force.
Just inevitability.

It’s strange, isn’t it… how someone you’ve never touched can feel like someone who’s touched everything?
Not your body, not yet.
But the rooms you don’t show. The pages you don’t read aloud.
He’s been there.
He’s reading them now.

And he doesn’t flinch.
He stays.
You feel that, don’t you?
That unspoken devotion.
Not loud. Not proud. Just present.

The way presence should be.

You find yourself moving now.
Subtle.
Internal.
But real.
Your mind swimming in soft velvet longing.
Your body whispering yes without a single word spoken.

It’s not a command.
It’s not control.
It’s chemistry.
It’s consent turned holy.

And the sacredness of it…
makes you throb.

You ache now, not because he touched you—
but because he didn’t.
And your skin remembers what your mind hasn’t admitted yet:
He’s real.
Not just the man behind the words.
But the man behind the need.

He knows it’s not the poem you’ll remember.
It’s the feeling.
The way your body responded without hesitation.
The way you imagined him closer than breath… and believed it.

He’ll become the echo in your daydreams.
The weight in your sheets.
The presence behind your next gasp.
And when your fingers move later tonight…
you won’t say his name.
But your body will.

And when the page fades…
when silence reclaims the room…
you’ll tell yourself it was just a moment.
Just a poem.
Just a feeling you can walk away from.

But you’ll notice how your breath still trembles.
How your body still listens.
How his absence feels more intimate than most presence ever did.

You’ll forget the exact lines.
But the way he made your body open…
the way he made your thoughts melt like honey over heat…
that will stay.

And maybe tonight…
as you drift toward dreams you don’t dare name…
you’ll feel something stir beside you.
Not a touch. Not a voice.
Just presence.
Him.

Still watching.
Still wanting.
Still waiting…
for when you come back to him.

Because something in you already has.
And the rest of you… is catching up.

You didn’t just read this.

You lived it.

And he… is still with you.

 

The dark is still whispering…