To see her—
crafted from the soft whispers of creation's finest breath,
formed with the care
that only the universe's hands could conjure—
to look, not with eyes,
but with soul's trembling fingertips,
and still, you think of entry.
Not love-making,
not the sweet tapestry of bonded flesh,
but a splintered hunger,
a clawing at her thresholds.
There is no key for that.
There is no door.
Only the echo of heartbreak—
the hollow scrape of a soul trespassing
on sacred ground
it does not understand.
But oh,
what if instead
you dared to disarm your need?
What if you laid it gently
at her feet,
like a fragile offering
to a goddess in bloom?
What if you loved her
not with your hands first,
but with your questions,
your silence,
your awe?
To make her laugh like storms breaking;
to tell her truths so rare
they taste like the first ripe fruit
ever bitten.
Do not come to her
with keys,
with fists,
with maps to a treasure
you have not earned.
Instead,
let her guide you
to the unlit corners of her world.
Learn the language
of her unspoken griefs,
her joy's secret dialect.
Touch her mind first,
trace the constellations
she has drawn on the walls of her spirit.
Love is not a door you kick open;
it is a garden,
wild and untamed.
You do not enter,
you are invited.
You do not possess,
you are held.
You do not conquer,
you are conquered.
And when her soul meets yours,
when the air between you ripples,
when you finally see—
truly see—
that entry is not the prize,
but the byproduct
of knowing her heart,
then you will understand.
The art of meeting is not found
in the taking,
but in the giving.
And when you give without grasping,
you will find—
without breaking,
you have entered.
