Temple of My Becoming
You did not rush the ruins of me.
You entered gently,
Like a prayer whispered
In the hollows of a broken chapel.
Your touch-
Not just desire,
But devotion.
You traced every scar
As though it were scripture.
We did not collide,
We communed-
Your breath a psalm,
My sighs an amen
Rising from the altar of my ache.
Where others only sought fire,
You brought warmth.
Where I had gone numb,
You gave sensation
Like sunlight to a frostbitten bloom.
And in that sacred rhythm,
Bodies bowed but hearts upright,
I remembered that Love-
True, tender, trembling-
Can feel like worship
And still leave no bruise.
So I opened,
Not just my thighs,
But my trust.
And you entered not to take-
But to awaken
The woman I'd buried
Beneath years of surviving.
Copyright © Beryl A. Ouma | Year Posted 2025
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