There is a language in my body...
one you can't learn through touch alone.
It's the rhythm beneath silence,
the pulse between breath and surrender.

Don't rush to understand me ---
I am not a mystery to solve,
but a song to listen to.

Every curve remembers something ---
the softness of creation,
the strength of becoming.

When you trace your fingers along me,
know that you touch centuries of silence
learning how to sing again.

My pleasure is not a reaction...
it's an awakening.
A door opening
to the garden we were cast from,
where shame was never spoken.

If you wish to enter me,
you must first learn to see me.
See the body that carries light,
the skin that keeps secrets,
the voice that trembles with truth.

Touch is not an act ---
it's a translation.
Of trust.
Of patience.
Of surrender.

So take your time.
Listen, not with your hands,
but with your breath.
Because desire,
real desire,
is remembrance...
of what we once were
before the world taught us to hide.