Touch her slowly.
Not like you’re chasing something.
Like you’ve arrived.
Like you took your shoes off at the door of her soul.
She has already known hurried hands.
She has known wanting without listening.
She has known mouths full of promises
and hearts that left before morning.
So come different.
Touch her the way dawn touches tiled rooftops in Shiraz.
Quiet.
Almost shy.
As if light itself is asking permission.
Do not rush toward her body.
Start with your voice.
Let your words fall beside her
like petals that forgot how to be heavy.
Say her name the way travelers say water.
Say it like it matters.
She is not something to win.
She is a whole sky pretending to be human.
Look at her the way old poets looked at the moon.
Not for beauty alone
but for the ache inside it.
See the places she learned to be brave.
See the small tired corners of her smile.
See how she carries storms behind her ribs
and still pours tea with steady hands.
When you touch her,
make it feel ceremonial.
Let your fingers speak in prayers.
Let your palms remember ancient rivers.
Move like you’re holding a fragile secret,
not a body.
She doesn’t need to be handled.
She needs to be held.
Softness is not weakness.
Softness is a language kings forgot.
Touch her like the ocean touches land.
Again and again.
No demands.
Only presence.
Let desire rise slowly,
like incense smoke curling toward heaven.
Not fire that burns and disappears.
Something deeper.
Something that stays warm long after.
Let her feel that you are here.
Not halfway.
Not checking clocks.
Not thinking ahead.
Give her your hours.
Give her your listening.
Give her the quiet parts of yourself.
Sit with her stories.
Even the tangled ones.
Especially the tangled ones.
Learn the pauses between her sentences.
That’s where she hides the truth.
Don’t offer her scraps of attention.
Offer her stillness.
Offer her your full, imperfect focus.
The kind that makes time loosen its grip.
She has been touched before.
Yes.
By hands that hurried.
By voices that echoed.
By love that left coats on chairs
and never came back.
So be the one who stays.
Be the touch that doesn’t fade by morning.
Be the memory that feels like shelter.
Be the moment she carries
when the world gets loud.
Touch her like rain touching dust.
Like candlelight finding dark rooms.
Like something holy remembering its way home.
And when you leave her side,
leave her softer.
Leave her braver.
Leave her knowing
she was not just desired.
She was seen.
She was honored.
She was held in a way
that changed the shape of her heart.
~ lLarson Langston
