She does not ask permission to enter; she does not need to.
She comes in the quiet, in the stillness of sleep, when thought has faded and only instinct remains. Expecting and hungry. She does not call my name; she does not have to. I already know. I already feel her.
She comes like weight pressing into me, a presence undeniable, unseen but known. Not a whisper, not a ghost, but something real, something felt in my bones.
She does not demand. She does not need to. I give before she asks. I bow before she commands. I surrender before she takes.
She comes not in softness, not in mercy, but in something deeper, something that reaches past flesh, past obedience, past the mind’s resistance. She comes in the way that claims, that brands, that leaves no room for doubt.
And I yield. I beg to yield
I yield because I am hers. Because even in waking, even in distance, even in silence, she is there Claiming me, Tormenting me in all the ways that I crave.
And when I wake, I do not question. I do not wonder. I only know:
She will come again.
