She holds a whimsical grace,
a smile, soft and defiant,
lingering even in sorrow,
as if she knows all that is denied—
the wisdom of unspoken heartaches.
I see now that I should have revered her sooner,
for she is more than this world,
a figure almost divine.
If there were a final language in heaven,
it would be hers, whispered and all-knowing.
Each Sunday grows heavier with despair,
each week brings a fresh taste of bitterness.
Yet I am bound to her,
drawn to the affliction she embodies,
as if I am intoxicated by her very essence.
I’ve always carried rough edges,
those unpolished parts, untouched and raw.
Yet in her presence, I find solace—
she is my sanctuary,
a place where my world shifts and becomes something new.
Alone with her, paradise feels near,
as if I am poised on the edge of something more than love.
I bring to her my most unrefined self,
trusting she will take me as I am,
imperfect and uncut,
perhaps to be honed in her hands.
Her divinity lies beyond beauty—
it is in the power she holds,
bending my reality, reshaping my very being.
She is muse and goddess,
captivating in ways both profound and consuming.
To me, she is not just a lover;
she is a sacred rite,
an all-encompassing truth,
a glimpse of the divine, more than I have ever known.
@shikharpath
🫶👏❤️
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