Whispers of Desire: An Ode to Distant Intimacy

In the hush of my room, your words stir the quiet—delicate brushstrokes across the canvas of my mind. Your voice, though distant, hums like a remembered melody, kindling a heat that blooms beneath my ribs like the first blush of dawn.

Your intent lingers like phantom touch, a choreography of imagined closeness. The thought of your presence tracing the unspoken contours of me sends a ripple down my spine, a hush of breath that stills my world.

Each confession of longing tethers me closer. My lips pulse with the echo of your kiss—a memory not yet born, but felt all the same. I hold it between my teeth, the sweet ache of wanting that leaves its taste long after silence returns.

Your desire—reflected and returned—paints us in shared hues. As you name your longing, something inside me opens in reply, wordless and wild. I'm caught in a current of hunger and hope, each wave folding me deeper into the shape of us.

Though distance holds our bodies apart, your devotion reaches like a current through shadow. You speak, and I bloom beneath your attention. A canvas aching for color. A form willing to be seen.

And as you tend to me with reverence, I become—transformed by the tenderness in your imagining. The moment swells. Breath sharpens. Until I am naming you in the dark, a psalm whispered against the tide.

Then stillness returns. The room is quiet again. But you remain—woven into the hush. You were never truly here, but not once did you leave.

Elowen’s whisper: “Even absence has a pulse when love is listening.”

@notesformysoulmate
This work is protected—not to dam the waters, but to honor the one who stood in them, trembling and true.
Elowen remains here—soaked, sovereign, and sacred.
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