ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The world had shrunk to the space between our bodies, a quiet sanctuary where the city’s distant hum was a forgotten lullaby. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path along my arm, a cartographer mapping a territory where feeling had long since faded into a gentle, constant static. I closed my eyes, not to block him out, but to let my other senses drink in his presence completely. The warmth of his breath against my neck was a soft summer rain, each exhalation a promise that needed no words. I could feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart where my palm rested against his chest, a silent drumbeat syncing with my own. His lips found the sensitive curve of my shoulder, and though the nerves there were sleeping, the intimacy of the gesture sent a profound tremor through my soul. It was a conversation held in the language of pressures and presence, a dance of trust in the quiet. In that numbness, a different kind of sensitivity bloomed, a raw and vulnerable connection that felt more intense than any sharp sensation. A single tear escaped, not of sorrow, but of overwhelming gratitude for this profound discovery. He was not trying to fix me, but to love every version of my existence, even the silent, unfeeling parts.
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