Stolen Moments

What is WolfCast?

Literary performance, essays, and spoken-word confessions from an author known only as Woolfinius Jackson Whürl. A voice from the Dust Meridian, reading the pages he never meant to send.

There is seeing and there is being seen. This is both.

A quiet, stolen moment.

half playful, half intimate...
as if you caught yourself
mid-thought
and decided to let me in.

Mirror light, soft and uncertain,
a room not fully awake.
The day still leaning in to start.

The counter cluttered with life—
the quiet debris of morning.
Not posed.
No performance.

THAT oversized shirt
of rich tie-dye,
loose, almost innocent,
lifted just enough
to break its own promise.

And there beneath,
that blue of dream,
no longer imagined
but real, though
occluding that
dainty garden door.

Suddenly present
you are in my hands,
my mind.
In me.

The lack of polish and pose
makes you so real
I can taste you.
A slight blur,
distantly placed,
making you surreal.

Tilt of the head,
eyes cast down,
hips shifted ever slo slight
as the fabric roles
across your breasts...

You may not yet be ready
for the world,
but it says,
you are ready for me.

Just that look,
a kind of deliberate curiosity,
as if you’re watching
how I arrive at you.

Your hand gathers the fabric
like an afterthought,
but it’s exact...
the perfect undoing.

And somewhere, just before this;
a high-water mark,
a singing crescendo
that I somehow inspired
in spite of my physical distance.

Apart, but in you,
with you
undoing you
from tip to top
until you splash
onto the light
completely spent.

And here you are,
still warm, still humming
just beneath the surface.
And it’s the contrast that stays,
soft cotton, bare skin,
the ordinary world holding still
while something quietly electric
passes between us.

No longer loud.

Not declared.

Just… offered.