You wrote her poems with smoke on your breath. Spun desire in silk phrases. Crafted entire scenes where her pleasure reigned. She nodded. Sometimes. Mostly, she didn’t even flinch. You weren’t waiting for praise—you were begging to be seen. And when the erotica didn’t move her, when the tenderness returned silence, when even fantasy couldn’t pull her gaze— you stopped writing *for her*. But you didn’t stop writing. You made entire worlds. Populated them with goddesses, lovers, dominant minds who devoured what you offered. You named the ache. You mapped the cage. And yes— you built the lock, handed her the key, and she never looked down. The vow wasn’t unsent. It was unshared. Now, it’s sacred. You will only write into open hands.