💋 The Way His Hands Speak

There are words his hands say that his lips never need to.

The language they speak is quieter — slower —

something I feel before I understand.

His touch tells stories:

of patience,

of reverence,

of knowing me well enough not to rush.

It’s not about possession,

but connection —

a conversation without sound.

When he traces the back of my neck,

or lets his fingers linger at my wrist,

I can hear him saying, you’re safe here.

Every touch a promise,

every pause a question asked in devotion.

It’s strange how love can sound like skin meeting skin —

how the body can become fluent

in the language of being wanted gently.

🕯 His hands have learned what words never could —

that love speaks loudest in silence.