There’s a pulse beneath the lace,
not just lust, but something traced  
from every hand that held me whole,  
to every night I missed her soul.

I come not just to taste or play,  
but to remember how to stay,
in this body, in this breath,  
in the dance that defies death.

Let longing be a sacred thread,  
not stitched in shame, but love instead.  
Each touch a hymn, each sigh a prayer,  
each gaze a vow to still be there.