I hope the stretch marks don’t bother you

Your eyes trace the soft landscape of her body, every silvered line a map of where skin has stretched to hold something full and real.

The marks branch across her hips and belly like river deltas, catching light in ways that smooth skin never could — each one a quiet record of a body that has grown, changed, survived.

You find yourself leaning closer, not despite them, but because of them. They make her tangible, warm, undeniably present — a body that has actually lived inside itself.