Soft

I pine for a soft man to compensate for my lack of softness. I have lived quarter of a century being insecure about not being womanly enough, not being soft enough, graceful enough. It only makes sense to crave traits that I fail to find in myself.

I want a soft-hearted man who talks tenderly to me that his voice almost sounds like a whisper of warmth, a man as quiet as the night, as passionate as the balmy sun. I want a man that fills the stars with a new-found radiance that they dance and flicker to the rhythm of his gentle voice. I want his eyes to be starry that they invite the moon to land in their dainty blackness. I want his touch to be as soft as a dandelion, a touch so gentle that our future child would refuse to let go off his fatherly embrace, a calming touch that stray cats no longer stray from his kindness. I want a man who, after God, will be my second guard, my shield from harm. I want to be tucked in his softness forever.