#emotionalintimacy - Hello Poetry

I do not know if it’s all illusion— but I adore when someone lies awake, eyes wide with dreams, tracing blades of grass, searching for me among flocks of white herons. I adore how someone falls in love with me while watching a deer—hair spilled wild, resting in pale blue light, waiting, almost breathless, for the hour of longing to end. And I adore it more when they listen for dew to learn if I have arrived; cradling a young hare, wondering if I, too, am restless; holding a white flower, smiling softly, gazing at swans and thinking of me. When rain falls they run outside just to feel me near. I love it— after the long day fades, or in the burnt stillness of afternoon, when they return, weary as a dove, and look for me— yes, I love it. May they remain like rainfall— gentle, everlasting, felt upon skin and soul.

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Sep 20, 2025

Sep 20, 2025 at 1:36 AM UTC

shoaib005

Felt Like Rain

I do not know if it’s all illusion— but I adore when someone lies awake, eyes wide with dreams, tracing blades of grass, searching for me among flocks of white herons. I adore how someone falls in love with me while watching a deer—hair spilled wild, resting in pale blue light, waiting, almost breathless, for the hour of longing to end. And I adore it more when they listen for dew to learn if I have arrived; cradling a young hare, wondering if I, too, am restless; holding a white flower, smiling softly, gazing at swans and thinking of me. When rain falls they run outside just to feel me near. I love it— after the long day fades, or in the burnt stillness of afternoon, when they return, weary as a dove, and look for me— yes, I love it. May they remain like rainfall— gentle, everlasting, felt upon skin and soul.

21

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.__

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Jul 31, 2025

Jul 31, 2025 at 1:17 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

The Art of Loving Beyond the Surface

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.__

33

It beats pretending— whispering _I don’t like you,_ even as a lie; The lie quietly bruises my mouth. I swallow those very words, my Throat tight whenever you’re near, Chocked up by your presence Words cut like scythed phrases, Brushing past my lips, swept By the tongue, chasing dust. We all get a little messy — Running after the one we love.

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Dec 16, 2025

Dec 16, 2025 at 2:15 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Soft Wounds

It beats pretending— whispering _I don’t like you,_ even as a lie; The lie quietly bruises my mouth. I swallow those very words, my Throat tight whenever you’re near, Chocked up by your presence Words cut like scythed phrases, Brushing past my lips, swept By the tongue, chasing dust. We all get a little messy — Running after the one we love.

11

History writes itself, becoming like the sun; surrounded by stars, surround-sound chaos singing through all of us. Bodies built from utensils; food for thought the only menu we ever trusted. Claims of someone, feeling like magic on the tongue; sweet enough to make silence blush, warm enough to soften every cold place inside your ribs. Bones, muscle, presence— that’s all we are at first; until touch teaches the body another kind of language. Still waters in words, spring resting in a garden; to grow gently upon one's earth, like rain finally meeting their land; landing on soil tired of thirst. To learn somebody slowly, eye by eye, breath by breath; the scent of their soul opening up, like orchids after dark. Love, making history of us both; ploughing open guarded hearts, planting trust beneath skin, finding connection in the trembling bloom of being fully felt. And maybe that’s why history will always write itself— because human hearts have always longed to be touched deeply enough, to grow.

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May 14

May 14, 2026 at 4:17 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

History Writes Itself

History writes itself, becoming like the sun; surrounded by stars, surround-sound chaos singing through all of us. Bodies built from utensils; food for thought the only menu we ever trusted. Claims of someone, feeling like magic on the tongue; sweet enough to make silence blush, warm enough to soften every cold place inside your ribs. Bones, muscle, presence— that’s all we are at first; until touch teaches the body another kind of language. Still waters in words, spring resting in a garden; to grow gently upon one's earth, like rain finally meeting their land; landing on soil tired of thirst. To learn somebody slowly, eye by eye, breath by breath; the scent of their soul opening up, like orchids after dark. Love, making history of us both; ploughing open guarded hearts, planting trust beneath skin, finding connection in the trembling bloom of being fully felt. And maybe that’s why history will always write itself— because human hearts have always longed to be touched deeply enough, to grow.

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