Love is not War
There was a time when love felt like hunger,
a quiet ache
a constant reaching
for scraps of affection.
I learned to survive on the smallest gestures
hands that brushed past,
but never quite touched
words that barely whispered
before fading into silence.
I learned to beg for a seat at the table
to plead for the bare minimum
hoping to be seen,
like a star struggling to shine
in the light of someone else's eclipse.
Then, you came.
And suddenly, love was not war
but a soft, steady rhythm
like the ocean kissing the shore
gentle, unhurried, endless.
You see me, not with the eyes
of a man who's learned to take
but with the reverence of a worshipper.
Like I am the sun
and you, drawn to my warmth,
could not live without my light.
You hold my hand like it's sacred,
like the very touch of it
is enough to heal the broken parts of you
that I never even knew existed.
You whisper words that taste like honey,
each syllable a prayer
and I, the temple you revere
not for what I do
but for who I am.
You move through my days like a blessing,
with soft gestures
quiet tenderness
a kiss on my forehead
that speaks louder than promises,
a love that doesn't demand, but gives,
with no end in sight,
In your eyes,
I am not the one who begs.
I am the goddess,
and you worship me
with every breath,
every thought,
every quiet, perfect gesture.
For the first time,
love is not a fight to survive,
but a place where I thrive.
And I will never let go
of this soft, holy feeling,
of being seen,
of being enough.
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