I think you might be magic.

The way you hold me.
Like a fragile but beautiful piece of pottery.
A treasure.
One you make clay with in only a few breathes of intoxicating tenderness.

With everyone else, I am combustible:
A glass-like object, a single place to hold.

But for you, I have curves never explored.
Ones I created.
Ones other created for me.
Ones you hold so delicately.

I have never felt more protected and valued.
More safe.

You are magic.
For making me feel this way.