I like the way she breathes
not just in and out,
but as if the world exhales through her.

When she leans close,
and her breath grazes my neck
soft as dusk wind
yet heavy with unspoken things
my skin learns to listen
before it learns to touch.

Her breath smells like first rain on burnt earth,
like ocean salt under a full moon,
like jasmine blooming where lips don’t meet,
but ache to.

She breathes,
and the world forgets its chaos.

Her chest lifts like a secret being unveiled,
a slow blooming of softness under silk,
each inhale a hymn,
each exhale a seduction.

She wears silence like perfume,
tight clothes like poetry.
And when she breathes in them
my god
those quiet Mountains rise and fall
as if the universe itself is practicing surrender.

I remember her on that scooty,
me on the back,
her hair wild in the wind,
her breath falling backward into me
whispers of mischief,
warmth tracing the shape of my collarbone,
until I forgot
where I ended
and she began.

In darkened movie theatres,
she leaned in to speak
but it wasn’t her voice that struck me.
It was the breath between the words,
the scent of sugar and fire,
sweeter than any plot twist on the screen.

And yes
on cold days,
I saw how the fabric hugged her,
how even her breath shivered against the chill,
how every inhale
felt like a confession.

I didn’t just watch her.
I witnessed her.

But still
it’s the way she breathes
that undresses me.

Before touch,
before taste,
before any climax of body
it is breath
that builds the altar of desire.

Each breath
an invitation,
a promise,
a slow unraveling
of something sacred
and deeply, deliciously human