Love enters like incense,
a slow exhale of sandalwood and jasmine,
curling against the edges of my skin.
Tantra whispers: be still,
let the universe undress you,
not of clothing,
But of the armor you stitched around your heart.
Intimacy is not urgency—
It is a rhythm,
a patient tide that rises and recedes,
teaching us the erotic is not always about fire,
But about the hush before the flame,
the silk between fingers,
the pause before surrender.
Erotica lives in the way eyes linger,
in the way laughter spills
and then halts mid-breath,
suspended between two bodies
learning each other’s language.
It is a hymn of touch,
an orchestra of sighs,
a soft rebellion against silence.
To receive is the art.
To glow is the consequence.
And to merge is not to lose oneself,
But to remember:
We were always divine,
always radiant,
always silk-wrapped beings,
made to feel, to open, to be worshipped—
without shame, without end–
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