He touched her
Like a priceless piece of art,
Like stained glass,
Like spun silver.
His hands cupped her face
Like the last draught of water
Beneath a scorching sun.
His fingers brushed her skin
Like the fire’s glow
Within a winter’s night.
Like she was light in the abyss,
Air above the water,
The pulse beneath his skin.
He touched her
Like she was something precious.
And for that, she loved him.

– s. Clark