Your fingertips kiss her skin
and embrace her body

You seem to know every curve
every line
every dint of her- physically

But you lack to take in the bumps and ridges of her mind
her delights
her wonders
her terrors

You touch her with dishonest hands
But not even the softest most delicate hands
could reveal the firy love she holds in her heart
Your lips on hers won't expel the poetry she has to speak
Your touch on her waist won't unlock her burning soul

More than a woman written in brail
She is a work of art

You do not need to touch her to understand her