Yes, yes, yes

It begins lower than language,

a warmth gathering where thought

can’t quite follow,

a slow ignition that doesn’t need permission

to become itself.

She feels it before she names it -

that pull, that answering

deep in the body’s interior,

as if something long patient

has turned towards the light at last.

And when the word comes,

it moves through her

like rhythm already underway,

carried in the hips, the mouth,

the small involuntary arch

that knows exactly where it’s going.

Yes -

not as declaration,

but as continuation.

A current she steps into,

or maybe always was,

something that gathers force

the more completely she enters it.

Her body isn’t waiting to be told.

It’s already fluent

in pressure, in timing,

in the precise language of touch

that doesn’t need translation.

Each sensation answers the last,

builds, shifts, returns,

until there’s no clear edge

between wanting and having it.

She follows that rising,

lets it take her

past the point where thinking arranges things,

into that bright, unsteady clarity

where feeling is the only measure.

Yes, she says,

and the word deepens.

Yes, and it widens,

spilling past the shape of speech,

becoming breath, becoming movement,

becoming the whole of her attention.

And again

because it keeps unfolding,

because it won’t stay still long enough

to be contained,

because it wants more of her

than she thought she could give.

There is no distance now

between the voice and the body.

Only this:

the spirit, the surge, the answering,

the exquisite loss of holding back

and the word, again,

arriving exactly when it must,

as if it had always been waiting

inside the body

to be spoken aloud:

yes

yes

yes