I don't remember what it feels like to be touched in the most sensitive ways and not cringe

And not because the person I've chosen to rest my head beside at night doesn't check all of my unspoken boxes

Like blue eyes, preferably. The kind that dive into your soul when they gaze at you, like you're the only girl they've ever seen

Or a contagious smile and an infectious laugh. The kind that is boisterous and care-free and loved in every endeavor

And caressing hands that could make even the most pious melt

I don't cringe because his voice doesn't sound like home
Like walking through the front door after a wearisome day

Gentle, yet firm, in his belief when he whispers his adoration for me

I don't cringe at the trust that exudes from every single one of my pores

Making my fingertips tingle
And my toes go numb
As the corners of my lips tip toward the sky in a mirror-like fashion

Simply put, I don't cringe because I don't love him - in every way a woman can love a man

The uncomplicated response is that I am like a vintage wind-up music player
That only works now when you smack it

It sings a hollowed-out melody
A desperation to be heard

Though strangled as it might be, as I may be, a part of me craves those gentle hands that remind me I am worth every ounce of tenderness he provides

Though my inner-monologue tells me I am undeserving

And I push him away, again and again

Yet, he continues to caress me

Not just with those merciful hands that have the ability to lift the burden off my back

But with those strategic, whispered words of adoration

That even during times of turmoil
Bring me back


© krystlereisler