Her skin, a living story —

pages written in flesh and light.

Each mark, each scar,

a chapter of battles survived,

secrets kept,

lessons learned in the language of the body.

They do not spoil her beauty;

they reveal it —

etched proof that she has lived,

loved, lost, fought, healed.

I asked, gently —

and she let me look,

let me trace her story

with steady hands and seeing eyes,

unafraid, unhurried.

In that quiet permission,

I found a deeper kind of intimacy —

not the easy kind, but the real kind,

where trust folds itself into the space between two people.

She could have hidden.

She could have turned away.

But she stayed —

unguarded, unmasked,

wildly, wonderfully human.

And I stayed too,

not to fix, not to change,

but simply to witness,

to honor the woman

who carries galaxies on her skin,

and strength in every line of her being.

There, in the sacred spaces she allowed me to see,

I found a beauty deeper than anything perfect —

I found her.