Oh yes, I deserve to be touched like a song —
The kind that hums warm beneath your skin,
Truly the kind of verse that lingers after it's gone,
Feelings like lips chasing honey, aching to begin.
I'll be a hundred miles out of breath; no ease —
Not to drift through love like life’s just a breeze,
But to feel the weight of it, strong and long —
Not to breeze through kisses like they don’t belong.

Let me find the centre of her hive, even if it stings —
I’ll wear the wounds for the sweetness it brings.
And I'll give buckets of love — let her be my list,
Filling up her day as a bucket list; every joy I’ve missed.

☐ To check myself daily — am I still right for her?
☐ To write emotional cheques that mirror her worth
☐ To admire her skin like diamonds, her hair like dusk
☐ To breathe in her scent — warm myrrh, not just musk
☐ To love her as one who's fully unmasked and just,
☐ To rise beside her in creation; like Adam from the dust
☐ To speak smooth words not to convince, but soothe
☐ To be her steady stillness, to be her rhythm, her truth
☐ To warm her up like tea after long, many loud days
☐ Then to spill the tea of our day, in the softest ways
☐ To hold her close where she can safely freefall
☐ And to keep my arms armed, but never build up walls

‘Cause everyone’s quick to think love peaks with *** —
But true touch starts when the soul, and another connects.
Where her rivers rush not from the waist, but from her heart,
And your love leaves graffiti on her walls, becoming fine art.

As you don’t paint over passion — you trace, and extend,
As you learn and value all of her curves, love and her bends.
To be a market of marvels; variety with depth in store —
So she aches with wonder for what's in store.

She truly deserves more.

You’ll regret crying in my hands—
  but only because
  you’ll miss the way they held you.
Your tears slip between my fingers
like quiet reminders
  of how far you’ve run
  from the person you used to be.
And still—
I know you remember your feet
each time they find their way
  back to my door.
    Instinct.
      Muscle memory.
        Need.

You come back bare,
and I wear you like a crown—
delicate, dangerous,
  balanced at the top of my thoughts.
You are the ache I prioritize.
  The storm I drink from.
    The wound I keep pressing,
      just to feel something again.

While my friends fold hands
in prayer to Jehovah,
I’m just praying
my depression doesn’t **** me over.
Sometimes I’d rather believe in your skin
  than in heaven—
and sometimes,
  I think your mouth is the closest
  thing I’ll ever get to salvation.
So we drink.
  We touch.
Not because it heals anything—
  but because it delays
       the end.

Darling,
we drink so this love doesn’t burn out.
We drink
  instead of breaking up.
And when your mascara smudges
  under my kiss,
when your sighs leave trails
  from your stained makeup,
I taste the salt of your sadness—
hidden beneath powdered cheeks
  and perfectly drawn lips.
We kiss
  beneath mood lighting
    and half-lies.
We are mature enough to drink,
  and broken enough to
    make up
      in every way
      the word
        dares to mean.