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.