She/her

She enters a room

and even the light

wants to touch her gently.

A woman knows things

the world cannot teach

how to turn softness into power,

how to make longing feel sacred,

how to carry a whole history

in the tilt of her mouth.

And I, loving women,

have learned devotion

is not a cage.

It is a flame held carefully

between two open hands.

I love the hush

before her laughter breaks loose.

The warmth of her thigh near mine.

The way a woman can look at you

like she is reading your scars

and your stars

at the same time.

To love a woman as a woman

is to know the holiness of recognition.

To kiss what was never wrong.

To touch what the world tried to shame

and call it beloved instead.

Her body is not an argument.

Not a battlefield.

Not a thing for the world to name and manage.

It is a living poem.

A rising tide.

A door of summer.

And when she loves me back,

I understand something ancient:

that tenderness can be electric,

that desire can be kind,

that joy can arrive

wearing her face.

So let me say it plainly

women are exquisite.

Not because they are delicate,

but because they endure

and still know how to tremble with pleasure.

Still know how to open.

Still know how to sing.

And I will keep praising them

with my mouth,

with my hands,

with my life.