12/06/2024
Touch her like she has never been touched before,
not in urgency, but in reverence,
like the first bloom of spring after a long winter—
delicate, deliberate, divine.
Not because she is fragile,
but because her strength deserves tender worship,
because the weight she carries has too often been met
with hands that sought to take,
never to honor.
Touch her with your words first,
let them spill like poetry she’s never heard—
words that see her not as a conquest,
but as a constellation of moments,
each one worth the wonder of discovery.
Speak as if your voice were silk on her skin,
each syllable a caress of understanding,
each sentence a promise
to hold, not break.
Touch her with your eyes next—
let them linger, not just on the curve of her body,
but on the way her laughter dances in the air,
on the fire in her gaze
that she hides behind shields of silence.
Let your look say what hands could never convey,
a gaze that says: I see you.
Not what you’ve been told to be,
but who you are when no one is looking.
And when your hands find her skin,
make every touch an offering—
a prayer whispered without words.
Let it be slow,
like the way the ocean touches the shore,
carrying pieces of eternity in its tide.
Let it be soft,
not because you fear her breaking,
but because she deserves a touch
that knows the language of grace.
Touch her with passion, yes—
but not the fleeting kind that burns out too quickly.
Let it be a slow ember,
a heat that simmers and builds
until it consumes everything false between you.
Let her feel not just your desire,
but your devotion,
your awe,
your willingness to touch not just her skin
but the soul she hides beneath it.
Touch her with your time,
for nothing speaks louder than the moments you offer,
unrushed, unmeasured, unbroken.
In a world that demands everything,
give her the gift of your presence,
whole and undivided.
Let her feel the weight of your patience,
the way you linger in her stories,
not just to listen,
but to understand the spaces between her words,
the quiet she fills with meaning unspoken.
Touch her with the hours you surrender,
not as if they are a debt to be paid,
but a treasure willingly spent,
each second an act of devotion,
each minute a reminder that she is worth
the things you cannot reclaim.
Give her not the leftovers of your day,
but the fullness of your focus,
the kind that makes her believe
time has paused just for her.
Be there in the stillness,
be there in the rush,
be there when the world feels too loud
and she needs a sanctuary.
For the clock will keep turning,
and the days will keep slipping away—
but when you touch her with your time,
you leave behind a memory,
a mark of love she can carry,
a forever carved into fleeting moments.
Touch her with your time,
and show her that she is not just a passing thought,
but the very reason
you stop.
For she has been touched a thousand ways before
by hands that rushed,
by words that fell empty,
by hearts that did not stay.
Be the touch she remembers not because it was fleeting,
but because it was true.
Touch her like she has never been touched before,
like the first drops of rain on parched earth,
like light breaking through an endless night.
Touch her,
and leave her feeling not just wanted—
but known,
but known,
treasured,
free.
