Touch I Want

Touch me like I have never been touched before,

not in urgency, but in reverence,

like the first bloom of spring after a long winter—

delicate, deliberate, divine.

Not because I am fragile,

but because my strength deserves tender worship,

because the weight I’ve carried has too often been met

with hands that sought to take,

never to honor.

Touch me with your words first,

let them spill like poetry I’ve never heard—

words that see me not as a conquest,

but as a constellation of moments,

each one worth the wonder of discovery.

Speak as if your voice were silk on my skin,

each syllable a caress of understanding,

each sentence a promise

to hold, not break.

Touch me with your eyes next—

let them linger, not just on the curve of my body,

but on the way my laughter dances in the air,

on the fire in my gaze

that I hide behind shields of silence.

Let your look say what hands could never convey,

a gaze that says: I see you.

Not what you’ve been told to be,

but who you are when no one is looking.

And when your hands find my skin,

make every touch an offering—

a prayer whispered without words.

Let it be slow,

like the way the ocean touches the shore,

carrying pieces of eternity in its tide.

Let it be soft,

not because you fear me breaking,

but because I deserve a touch

that knows the language of grace.

Touch me with passion, yes—

but not the fleeting kind that burns out too quickly.

Let it be a slow ember,

a heat that simmers and builds

until it consumes everything false between us.

Let me feel not just your desire,

but your devotion,

your awe,

your willingness to touch not just my skin

but the soul I hide beneath it.

Touch me with your time,

for nothing speaks louder than the moments you offer,

unrushed, unmeasured, unbroken.

In a world that demands everything,

give me the gift of your presence,

whole and undivided.

Let me feel the weight of your patience,

the way you linger in my stories,

not just to listen,

but to understand the spaces between my words,

the quiet I fill with meaning unspoken.

Touch me with the hours you surrender,

not as if they are a debt to be paid,

but a treasure willingly spent,

each second an act of devotion,

each minute a reminder that I am worth

the things you cannot reclaim.

Give me not the leftovers of your day,

but the fullness of your focus,

the kind that makes me believe

time has paused just for us.

Be there in the stillness,

be there in the rush,

be there when the world feels too loud

and I need a sanctuary.

For the clock will keep turning,

and the days will keep slipping away—

but when you touch me with your time,

you leave behind a memory,

a mark of love I can carry,

a forever carved into fleeting moments.

Touch me with your time,

and show me that I am not just a passing thought,

but the very reason

you stop.

For I have been touched a thousand ways before—

by hands that rushed,

by words that fell empty,

by hearts that did not stay.

Be the touch I remember not because it was fleeting,

but because it was true.

Touch me like I have never been touched before,

like the first drops of rain on parched earth,

like light breaking through an endless night.

Touch me,

and leave me feeling not just wanted—

but known,

treasured,

free,

yours.