You are the Earth remembering itself

The earth receives you, warm and waiting, her breath rising through moss and soil to meet the heat of your body.

A fern sways beside you, its fronds trembling in the hush of the wind, reaching as if it, too, desires to touch. You take it slowly between your fingers, and something stirs. A shiver. A slow, curling pleasure.

Your thighs part slightly, just enough to welcome sensation, just enough to surrender to the softness of this moment. Your chest rises to meet the sky, open, yielding, ready to receive.

Sunlight spills over your skin, warm and golden, painting the arch of your neck, the slope of your collarbone, the rise and fall of your curves.

The fern glides higher, teasing, circling, drawing invisible patterns over your belly. You bring it between your breasts. Your lips part. Your body softens.

The earth invites you deeper into sensation, deeper into pleasure, deeper into the truth that your body is a sacred landscape of longing and aliveness.

There is only this: the slow unraveling. The opening. You are the temple. You are the earth remembering itself.