Lady’s Gaze

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In love, I do not seek perfection—

only grace—

so that my gaze may rise with truth.

I looked up—

and there it was—

the veil of composure slipping,

a silken shroud,

spun from a lifetime of polite silences.

And then—I dared.

A quiet strength stirred in my bones,

rooted and ancient,

like stone remembering the weight of time.


This was no surrender.

This was recognition—

the sovereign reawakening of my own soul.


A sacred hush unfurled between us,

as potent as truth unspoken,

as still as a prayer unformed.


The first lesson in love

is not sweetness,

but the unveiling of your soul.


For love, when distanced,

becomes a planet—glimmering,

yet untouched.


Masks may charm,

but each one wounds the spirit.

Polished lies are only fractures

in a truth waiting to bloom.


Only the raw arc of becoming—

undefended, whole—

can love truly meet.


The spirit knows its worth,

not in compliance,

nor in silence forged from fear,

but in the beat that echoes undistorted.


If your heart does not tremble with truth,

it dances with betrayal.


What pretense!

A brittle shell shattering at first light.


Do not hide behind your smile.

Do not offer a mirror with no reflection.


Love is no gentle stream.

It is an elemental rising—

a tectonic shift that remakes your bones.


Trust me.

Be gentle, yes—

but with the gravity of old stone.


Be fierce—

like thunder unashamed of its voice.


Be vulnerable—

not broken, but bare,

a bud trembling before bloom.


Know your mind.

It is not small.

It is a cosmos unto itself.


And know this—

you are not adored in spite of your storms,

but because of them.


Because you dared to stand in the rain,

barefoot, unafraid of the flood.


Let us cross this threshold—

not a border,

but a covenant carved in soullight.


Let us stand

in the mirror of inner truth,

where no lie can take root.


I do not see you as whole.

I see you in sacred fragments—

the breath you hold before you speak,

the way your fingers clutch at fear,

the ache beneath your laughter,

the tightening behind your eyes.


These are your truest confessions.

Not words, but essence.


The thoughts that linger—

the yearning that sees beyond sight—

the silent pleas,

the buried oracle of intuition—

these are not flaws.


They are divine cartography.

They are the map

to your sacred becoming.


Solace does not arrive as comfort—

but as stillness earned.


The path is not clean.

It is dust and doubt,

grace and grit,

uncertainty, and luminous hope.


But courage—

the unwavering, soul-forged choice—

is the seed of bloom.


I stood once at the edge of silence,

a precipice of self.

And I heard your voice—

not as words,

but as resonance—

in the space between my heartbeats.


Truth did not release me.

It became the marrow of my becoming.

Not a fire,

but an eternal sun,

burning slow,

burning true.


I shed my old names.

I unlearned conquest.

I abandoned hunger for control.


I sought not possession—

but communion.

Not performance—

but presence.


Stillness,

where two souls breathe as one silence.


You are mystery.

Not to be solved,

but to be met,

like ocean meets moonlight.


You drew me not with promises,

but with presence.


You anchored me in now.

You offered sanctuary—

not safety,

but sacredness.


I am here.

In this hallowed space between your ribs,

in the holy breath of your heart.


I am not held—

I am known.


And when I gaze again—

it will not be with fear’s ghost,

but with reverence.


For a lady’s gaze,

when forged in the kiln of truth,

is not timid—

not small—

not apologetic.


It is elemental.

It is unflinching.

It is the cosmos revealed

through eyes that finally see.

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