The Right Love Never Plucks

 

He’s the kind of man 

to love me 

slow. 

I am so very 

used to men 

loving me 

hastily. 

Full of hunger 

and flame. 

He brings 

the passion, too, 

but he savors 

every touch. 

Traces the fingertips 

along more than 

skin, 

lingers the kiss 

against more than 

lips, 

slips his love 

in deeper than 

flesh. 

My nerves 

have never encountered

anything 

like it. 

They can 

barely handle 

it, 

and they can 

barely handle 

not getting enough 

of it. 

Every move 

he makes 

is the tipping 

of a sprinkler 

into a garden.

There is growth.

Every move 

he makes 

brings relaxation

to tension, 

and peace 

to trauma. 

The stem 

of my spine 

rises. 

The petals 

of my soul 

bloom. 

The way 

he waters, 

shines, 

nourishes me 

is unlike any 

other love 

I have ever known.

It is the 

only love 

that has never 

asked, 

begged, 

nor demanded

anything of me.

It is the 

only love 

that has not 

eaten me alive

like pesticides.

He only wishes 

to lie in the grass

with me, 

rain, 

storm, 

or shine, 

and weather 

whatever the sky

brings us. 

And above all,

he never plucks. 

​

He. 

​

Never. 

​

Plucks.