It starts in the quiet —
not with a word, not even a glance,
but with the kind of silence that hums beneath the skin.

A spark — soft, deliberate — catches fire behind the eyes.
The breath slows. The body remembers.
Every inhale, a question. Every exhale, an answer older than language.

Fingers don’t touch — they recall.
Movements aren’t learned — they return,
as if my body has always known the choreography of wanting.

This isn’t love.
This isn’t lust.
It’s the hunger that exists in the space between them —
a craving that doesn’t ask for permission,
a pulse that speaks before thought can interrupt.

There’s an ache before surrender —
the kind that tastes like courage,
the kind that makes silence thunder.

Every glance, every sway, is an invocation —
not for validation, but recognition

Here, I am both flame and fuel.
I am not afraid to crave.
I am not afraid to be craved.

Desire, in its purest form, is holy.
It’s not sin — it’s scripture.

I shed expectation like silk.
I move not to please — but to release.
To feel everything,
to hold nothing back.

This isn’t a meeting of bodies —
it’s fire meeting oxygen.
And in that stillness between two heartbeats,
you’ll hear me.

Not softly.
Not subtly.
But unmistakably.