dayswillpass

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She wore no silk, no lace, no guise, No need for curves to mesmerise. She stepped inside his restless head, And lingered in the words said.

She traced his thoughts with velvet grace, A soft touch, electric embrace. Her voice—a spark, her mind—a flame, Each syllable a whispered name.

She didn’t pout or bat her eyes, She wrapped him in her clever lies. Not lies to wound, but truths in play, That danced like fire, then slipped away.

He craved the twist of her reply, The way her wit could tease and pry. No skin could thrill him quite as much As sentences that dared to touch.

So let them say that beauty's bare— She knew the sexiest thing was rare: To make a man undress his soul, And lose himself in her control.

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Win, Lose or Stalemate?

She chose to play black like surrender waiting to happen. He wore black and watched her from across the chessboard, her beauty barely visible in the city’s neon glow. An angel draped in shadow and hesitation. A devil in tailored calm, every move he made deliberate, every silence, loud.

She sat still, wings folded like secrets. The skyline behind her pulsed with rhythm, but here—at the ledge—it was quiet. Heavy with things unsaid.

He moved first. Pawn forward. Centered. Not aggressive—inviting.

She responded in kind. Simple symmetry. But her hand lingered, like each decision cost her a little piece of herself.

“Cautious,” he murmured, his knight sweeping out in a curve, probing, never direct. He tilted his head. “Wings don’t always mean fear,” he added, “Sometimes they mean you’re holding back.”

Her lips parted, then closed. She played without speaking— methodical, measured, guarded. But not out of pride. Out of hope— that he might see past it.

He stole her bishop without hesitation— but without cruelty. “You protect the wrong things,” he said softly, and set the piece down like it still mattered.

She looked at the board, but felt the space between them shift. The game had rules, but this— was something else.

Her queen surged forward. Not reckless, but exposed. Like something wild caged too long.

He raised a brow—amused. Not because she was dangerous, but because she was finally honest.

“Power suits you,” he said, leaning just slightly in, close enough— even her breath betrayed her.

But he didn’t touch her. He never had to. He didn’t intend to.

Each piece she lost was a layer gone. Each move he made felt less like conquest, more like a question asked without words.

The game slowed.

The night deepened.

And when her trembling fingers— finally put him in check, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t fight.

He moved his king gently— just enough. Just out of reach.

The board was nearly bare now, but nothing about them was empty.

He looked at her—really looked. No arrogance. No victory. Just heat and gravity.

“Draw?” he asked.

Not because he couldn’t win. Because he didn’t want to.

She nodded.

“Yes, Draw.”

And in that breath between silence and surrender, they both knew— neither of them had lost.

Because sometimes, the most exquisite submission is the choice not to fall— but to be caught and held without ever having to ask.

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Mary Oliver, The summer day

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analoguevibez

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The older I get, the more I find that you can only live with beings who liberate you, who love you with an affection that is as light to bear as it is strong to feel. Life today is too hard, too bitter, too debilitating for us to suffer new bondages, new captivities from those whom we love. This is how I am your friend: I love your happiness, your freedom, your adventure, in a word - and I would like to be, for you, a companion you can be sure of, always.”

— Albert Camus, (to René Char, 1957) in "Camus-Char: Correspondence 1946-1959) (Gallimard, 2007) (via Alive on All Channels)

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The person you look for in a crowd, to find they were looking for you too.

k.b. // by @/astrologyvas

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(by flopunktwe)

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Every time I look at you, I see a thousand versions of myself — some cruel, some kind, all of them yours.

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out of the blue

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