There was a time when I didn’t want anyone’s arms around me but my own.
The thought of a man embracing me one moment just to leave me in the long run caused me to become reclusive.
Then came you.
When you touched me,
you told a story.
Your hands meeting my skin
served as the segue into my soul.
Every crease, dip and curve
were points for marking.
You kissed my scars and traced my stretch marks.
You knew that my temple was my territory,
but you never made me feel like an object for wanting to see what was inside.
I’m not resentful.
Tearful, but not resentful.
I miss those moments,
when a tickle turned into love making,
and how you’d hold me all through the night.
I’m not mad at you,
because for the first time in my life,
it wasn’t just sex.
You felt me beyond the physical.
You wanted more than just a release.
You poured into me,
and exchanged your love for mine.
Poet: Stefanie Parrott