Your lips brush up against mine,
ever so softly that I barely register the touch as physical.
I am used to volcanoes.
I am used to getting burned.
I am not used to
the way you caress my face and cradle the nape of my neck.
Like I am delicate,
Like I am something you don’t want to break.
You are mist.
You are the phenomenon of small water droplets suspended in air after volcanic activity.
You are the calm after the storm.
You are the dawn after the night.
You are the gentle after the rough.
You are unprecedented, tender love,
And I decide that I can get used to this.
N.E.W.,  Tender, Unprecedented Love (via misehry)