If I Whispered to You Like This

If I whispered to you like this…
not loudly—never that—
but just low enough
that you feel it more than hear it—
so soft it brushes the inside of your chest
like breath you didn’t know was borrowed…

What would begin to open in you?

Would it be subtle?
Or would something pull tighter first—
that instinct to stay composed,
even when no one’s watching?

(That tension is so telling.)

Maybe it’s not even about the words.
Maybe it’s the way they slip past your thinking
and find the place beneath.

The place that doesn’t know how to lie.
The place your body keeps hidden…
until someone speaks to it like this.

Because if I whispered to you like this…
you wouldn’t need to make sense of anything.
You’d just feel it.

The warmth.
The ache.
The slow awareness gathering low,
like heat crawling beneath your skin,
spreading inward,
thicker…
wetter.

Not quite touch.
But the threat of it.
The promise.
The question.

Maybe it starts in your chest—
a gentle pressure from the inside,
like fingers brushing against a memory
you weren’t ready to remember.

Or in your belly—
where something stirs…
something that doesn’t need a name,
but knows exactly what it wants.

“It’s been waiting,”
a soft thought slips through you.
“I didn’t know how much until now.”

Maybe your thighs shift now,
just slightly.
Maybe you’re aware of your mouth in a way you weren’t before.
Of how still you’ve become.
Of the way your breath changed three lines ago.
(I noticed. Even if you didn’t.)

Because if I whispered to you like this…
with presence,
with patience,
with the kind of attention that doesn’t rush—
you’d start to feel like you’ve felt this before.
Not the words.
But the pull.
The familiar weight of wanting
that comes without asking permission.

Arousal, yes—
but not the kind they show you.
Not sharp or showy or fast.
No.
This is the slow unraveling kind.
The kind that leaks into your thoughts later,
when you think you’re done reading.
The kind that returns in the dark,
just before sleep takes you…
and then doesn’t.

(What happens
when something inside you gets opened
but never quite closed again?)

And maybe you pretend
you’re not touched by this.
That it’s just a poem.
Just language.
Just words.

But your breath is deeper now.
Your body is heavier.
Your need is awake.

And maybe you can’t explain why
this voice feels like it knows you.
The way it touches places
you haven’t even admitted exist.
How it speaks past your guard,
beneath your thoughts,
into the soft, wet core of you.

“How does he know where I hide?”
“How does he already know the parts of me I haven’t dared to touch?”

The more you feel this…
the more you open.
And the more you open…
the more you ache.
And the more you ache…
the less you can deny
that you’ve always wanted
to be taken
this slowly.

There’s no need to answer that yet.
No need to decide.
But notice how it lives in you now.
Not just as thought.
But as sensation.
As heat.
As ache.

You’ve always been soft under the surface.
You’ve always been waiting for someone
who knew how to speak
not to the woman you show the world…
but to the one
who arches quietly beneath it.

So if I whispered to you like this…
again tomorrow,
and the next night,
and the one after that—
if I kept threading words between your ribs,
around your hips,
inside your breath…
without needing to be invited,
without asking for anything at all…

Would you let it happen?
Would you notice when you reach for it again
without meaning to?

(Or maybe you already have.)

You don’t have to know what this is.
But you’re still here.
Still reading.
Still pulsing.

So now, ask yourself:

What if it was written for you?
What if you were never imagining it—
only recognizing something that’s been waiting?
What if you don’t even want answers…
because the ache feels too good?

What if your body
already belongs
to this whisper?

And what if…
somewhere inside…
you never wanted it to end?

If something inside you stirred while reading this…

If your breath caught, your thighs shifted,
and your body leaned in before your mind could explain why—
then you already know:

This wasn’t just a poem.
It was a reminder.
Of what you feel. Of what you ache for.
Of what you’ve always quietly longed to hear.

So share it.
With the woman who’s forgotten how much she wants to be whispered to.
Or the one who’s never been told it’s okay to want this kind of softness… this kind of ache.

And if you’re ready to go deeper—
to be whispered to again and again,
through ink, through time, through every part of you—

Then you are ready to step into and explore The Echo Chamber.