Evenings When I Choose Myself

There are evenings when I take off not my clothes — but expectations.
Slowly. Consciously.
And remain in a state where I don’t need to be convenient or correct.

I love those hours when the light softens, movements become lazy, and the body finally catches up with the mind. I feel myself through my skin. Through my breathing. Through the way I sit, the way I cross my legs, the way I allow myself to rush nowhere and toward no one.

In those evenings, I am especially feminine.
Not demonstratively — deeply.
I know I can be desired. But right now, I choose to feel.

I touch the rim of a glass, the fabric, my own wrists — not for effect, but because I enjoy sensing myself. There’s an intimacy in this that can’t be faked. It doesn’t require a witness, yet it’s exactly what makes me magnetic.

Sometimes I think about a man who could be beside me like this.
Who wouldn’t rush the moment.
Who would understand that this isn’t an invitation — it’s a state.
And that you don’t step into it abruptly… you enter it, like warm water.

But even if he’s far away right now — the evening is still mine.
I allow myself the pleasure of being myself.
Calm. Unhurried. Slightly dangerous.

And every time I choose myself on evenings like this,
I know — this is how real desire begins.

Albina