The Courage to Stay
This moment does not sleep—it listens.
A body curves protectively, not out of need, but choice. Attention here is active, awake, and tender. One presence remains alert so the other can drift without fear. The light catches the line of a shoulder, the softness of a cheek, as if illumination itself has learned restraint.
There is devotion in the angle of closeness. Not dramatic, not declared—simply kept. A quiet vigilance that says: rest, I will be here when you wake. The world beyond the frame has been dismissed as unnecessary noise.
Nothing reaches.
Nothing claims.
This is intimacy at its most honest—when care replaces desire, when presence becomes an offering, and when staying is the bravest act of all.
The Courage to Stay
This moment does not sleep—it listens.
A body curves protectively, not out of need, but choice. Attention here is active, awake, and tender. One presence remains alert so the other can drift without fear. The light catches the line of a shoulder, the softness of a cheek, as if illumination itself has learned restraint.
There is devotion in the angle of closeness. Not dramatic, not declared—simply kept. A quiet vigilance that says: rest, I will be here when you wake. The world beyond the frame has been dismissed as unnecessary noise.
Nothing reaches.
Nothing claims.
This is intimacy at its most honest—when care replaces desire, when presence becomes an offering, and when staying is the bravest act of all.