Touch without hand

The more I ask about you, the more I discover quiet, special truths about myself. You are a plan I carry gently, one I hesitate to express about. wondering if words could ever do you justice. Your lips tell stories, and I want to listen to them with mine. You make me pause not as a mistake but as a silence meant to be felt. I feel you, and my breath softens, as if someone thins it carefully, Not to disturb the moment. You linger effortlessly on my breath, slowly matching its pace. Your presence is unmistakable, like a delicate mist resting on a formidable mountain. The air feels smooth like skin I once touched and never forgot. You feel like home and sometimes even safer, far more tender than it. You never rush. You touch without hands, yet carve yourself into a beautiful calligraphy. And in that stillness, it becomes clear: you and I are already complete. Witnessing this union, even the gods shower flowers and I bow, not in surrender, but in reverence.