In the Quiet of Her Presence
In the Quiet of Her Presence
He longs to drink her whole,
not only her body,
but the breath behind her words,
the aching silences between her sentences.
To him, she is not a woman,
but a constellation,
a sky of moods,
a galaxy of prayers,
her presence setting off quiet explosions
in the forgotten corners of his being.
He yearns to remain there,
where her glance is scripture,
her sigh a ceremony,
where each gesture is a moonrise
in the temple of his longing.
But he senses the tides of her soul—
the moments she turns inward,
her quiet departure from the surface world,
her secret conversations with the invisible.
He listens,
not just to her voice
but to the space it leaves behind.
She does not want to be studied.
She wants to be felt.
Not unraveled,
but worshiped in wonder.
She does not seek a lover
who solves her.
She seeks a flame
that prays beside her fire.
Her longing is sacred.
Her solitude is not distance,
but devotion.
It is there she communes
with the unnamed gods
that touch her body in dreams.
To love her,
he must unlearn the noise,
become stillness in her temple,
a breath beside her breath.
She waits patiently,
with the deep, erotic poise
of a woman who knows her worth.
She wants to be met in the hush,
where bodies speak in warmth,
and love is not declared,
but tasted slowly
in the holy pause between words.
She aches for presence
that doesn’t seek to conquer,
but to commune.
And when he meets her there,
in that sacred hush,
in that sacred heat,
he will discover
that silence
has a pulse,
and her body
is its rhythm.