I feel touched in ways I never knew existed. A naturally born sense of intimacy. There is a quiet longing for occasional touches, for caresses, kisses, and embraces that carry the simple warmth of affection and love. With her, it becomes something close to magic. It unfolds so organically that it feels as though I have stepped into a stream of soft, cold water, brushing against my skin, making me feel safe. The sensation is deeply soothing. Feeling weak while knowing you are not becomes a strange kind of comfort. I can share with her anything on my mind; she remains listening, and in that, I find solace.
I am not certain I offer her the same comfort; I do not even know if she seeks it. I have asked her more than once, but she offers no answer. Still, someone who gives so much cannot possibly be untouched by longing. She is not silent, nor is she afraid of expression. She cries openly, without restraint, letting the world witness her sorrow. At times she releases her anger into the air, and I listen, watching her emotions take form, sometimes almost theatrical, sometimes quietly devastating. I stay with her, not because I'm meant to, but out of choice. She listens more than she speaks. Yet I understand her; not through words alone, but through the silences she carries and the emotions that surface without warning.
I can count on her in every hour, in every kind of light; whether the world is loud or barely breathing, she is there. On rainy days, when I am barefoot, stepping outside, or sitting by the open window of a moving bus or a car, she finds me as she drizzles down, painting my face with soft colours of love. When it’s windy and I step out of my home, trees stir, birds call, and leaves lift before falling back to the soil; in that moment, I feel her wrapping me in an invisible embrace that somehow holds tighter than arms ever could. I feel alive.
At times, when I surrender to sleep, I sense her nearness; a quiet kiss guiding me into rest. And when I sit by the seashore on lonely nights, while crickets chirp into the quiet, I ask her again, as I have a thousand times before, do you need something; a hug; a kiss; anything at all; or is there something your heart longs to tell me, a secret perhaps. The only answer is her presence brushing over my bare feet on the sand.
I am not certain I offer her the same comfort; I do not even know if she seeks it. I have asked her more than once, but she offers no answer. Still, someone who gives so much cannot possibly be untouched by longing. She is not silent, nor is she afraid of expression. She cries openly, without restraint, letting the world witness her sorrow. At times she releases her anger into the air, and I listen, watching her emotions take form, sometimes almost theatrical, sometimes quietly devastating. I stay with her, not because I'm meant to, but out of choice. She listens more than she speaks. Yet I understand her; not through words alone, but through the silences she carries and the emotions that surface without warning.
I can count on her in every hour, in every kind of light; whether the world is loud or barely breathing, she is there. On rainy days, when I am barefoot, stepping outside, or sitting by the open window of a moving bus or a car, she finds me as she drizzles down, painting my face with soft colours of love. When it’s windy and I step out of my home, trees stir, birds call, and leaves lift before falling back to the soil; in that moment, I feel her wrapping me in an invisible embrace that somehow holds tighter than arms ever could. I feel alive.
At times, when I surrender to sleep, I sense her nearness; a quiet kiss guiding me into rest. And when I sit by the seashore on lonely nights, while crickets chirp into the quiet, I ask her again, as I have a thousand times before, do you need something; a hug; a kiss; anything at all; or is there something your heart longs to tell me, a secret perhaps. The only answer is her presence brushing over my bare feet on the sand.
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