I taste the salt of your battles,
victories etched upon your skin,
and in the sweetness of your breath,
I hear the echo of resilience—
not broken, but burnished by fire.

I see you—
not the scars, but the grace that bore them,
the way your spirit bends but does not shatter,
the way your eyes hold storms and sunlight,
inviting me to stand within both.

I touch you—
not with haste, but with reverence,
my hands not claiming,
but listening to the language of your body.
Every curve whispers stories,
and I honor them all,
tracing forgiveness into your skin
until shame dissolves beneath my fingertips.

I hear you—
even in the silences where words cannot go.
Your tremors, your guarded pauses,
your unspoken fears—
to me they are not burdens,
but sacred notes in the symphony of you.
In every quiver, I promise:
you are safe, you are seen, you are free.

I smell the wild garden of your becoming—
rose and smoke, rain and cedar—
fragrance of a woman who has fought,
who has bled,
and who now blooms with the power of survival.
This is the perfume of a queen reborn,
and I breathe you in like prayer.

And when I kiss you—
lips to lips, soul to soul—
it is not hunger that guides me,
but devotion.
Your past does not repel me;
it crowns you.
Every wound a jewel,
every scar a constellation,
every ache a reminder of how fiercely you lived.

You are not forgiven—
for there is nothing to forgive.
You are celebrated.
You are cherished.
You are the victor of your own story,
and I,
am only the flame that warms your triumph,
the sanctuary where your desires
can bloom without shame,
without fear,
without end.