✨A Prayer✨
He touches her,
not with reverence—
but with a hunger born of drought.
His hands, calloused by red clay and regret,
dig for love like it’s something buried
beneath her skin.
He calls it passion.
But it is power—
shaped by years of scorched summers,
where boys were broken in pews
and taught to fear their own longing.
Where softness was scolded with scripture,
and desire was buried beneath sermons
spoken louder than love.
He learned to bow to rules,
but never to awe.
To confess sins
he was too young to name.
To shame his body
before he could even call it his.
So he grew—
not with roots, but armor.
Not with truth, but silence.
Not with peace, but wounds deeper than the holler.
He has walked barefoot
on sun-cracked dirt that remembers blood.
He has kissed women
the way the wind carves the dunes—
fast, thoughtless,
vanishing.
The wild sand still clings to his bones,
from places where the waves whisper secrets
he never stayed long enough to hear.
And the wind still howls his name
from the peaks he once climbed,
trying to prove he wasn’t afraid to fall.
But he never fell.
He only ran.
He is a man who climbs women
like mountains he cannot name—
for conquest, not communion.
He hides behind the weight of his body
so he won’t feel the weight of his sorrow.
And she—
the wild and holy woman—
feels it.
She feels the ghost in his gaze,
the emptiness dressed in desire,
the boy who was never held
and never told
that his softness was sacred.
There is grief in that.
Grief for the man who was taught
to conquer his tenderness.
Grief for the soul
who mistook intimacy for invasion.
Grief for the fire
that was never tended—only feared.
But oh…
if he ever stopped running—
if he let the wind strip him bare,
and let the clay cover him like baptism,
if he stood still long enough
to hear the mountain echo back his name…
He would remember.
He would remember the boy
who dreamed beneath wide-open skies.
He would remember the prayer
that left his mouth when no one was listening.
And he would kneel.
Not to her—
but to truth.
To softness.
To the holy ache of being known.
Because a man
who chases vulnerability instead of escape,
who holds his pain like a compass,
who cloaks himself not in ego,
but in sacred surrender—
that man becomes holy.
That man becomes the thunder
that blesses the rain.
The silence that finally speaks.
The fire that warms, not burns.
That man,
is worth waiting for.