he always asked for permission.
not like a formality โ
not the way someone asks
after theyโve already decided.
but like he meant it.
like my no
wouldnโt make him flinch.
and every time,
i said yes.
and felt his hands
move like theyโd just been
gifted a map โ
not to conquer,
but to understand.
even when his fingers slipped
under the hem of my shirt,
found the small of my back โ
he paused.
and gave me a chance
to say no. itโs enough.
even when his hand
brushed against my bra strap,
barely there โ
he whispered sorry,
as if the air between us
deserved an apology.
i didnโt ask,
if i could touch you
further up.
and that โ
thatโs what i remember.
not the way he kissed me.
not the taste of that night.
but the way his respect
intoxicated my mind.
looking back,
i think that was the moment
he opened me up,
let my feelings spill,
whilst keeping his own still.
and god.
i loved him for that.
this one is about the way someone touched me with care โ and how that respect undid me more than any kiss ever could.