Skin

You touch my sleeve and change my breath,

a tiny move that feels like depth.

You name a thought, I feel exposed,

yet somehow safer when disclosed.

You trace a line along my arm,

a simple act that carries calm.

I open up without a plan,

you read me closer than I can.

Skin remembers every note,

every promise left afloat.

Holds the truth beneath the play,

keeps the moment from decay.

And even when I feel unsure,

your steady tone becomes my cure—

skin remembers, soft but strong,

guiding me where I belong.

You ask me why I guard my pace,

I answer slow, you give me space.

Your steady gaze disarms my pride,

I let the tension step aside.

You turn a breath into a claim,

and somehow I don’t feel the same.

A single phrase, a softened grin,

I let you wander deeper in.

Skin remembers every note,

every promise left afloat.

Holds the truth beneath the play,

keeps the moment from decay.

And even when I feel unsure,

your steady tone becomes my cure—

skin remembers, soft but strong,

guiding me where I belong.

Maybe touch is honest speech,

maybe care is hard to teach.

Maybe change begins this way,

in what hands refuse to sway.

Skin remembers what we build,

every moment gently filled.

Turns our quiet into fire,

turns my fear into desire.

And even when the world feels thin,

I trust the truth you place within—

skin remembers, more than sight,

holding us through day and night.