There is a particular intimacy that comes with age—one that is slower, fuller, and unapologetically embodied. I wake up in his t-shirt again.
It hangs off my shoulders, soft and oversized, brushing against skin that has lived. Skin that has stretched, healed, marked time. At this stage of life, nothing about my body is imaginary. Everything has a story.
Our bodies tell our most intimate stories—
the stretch marks, the tats, the birthmarks.
The places where life pressed hard and didn’t apologize. The places where love once left and later returned.
When he pulls me close, there is no scanning, no assessment. He affirms the deep valleys, the crooks, the life pain my body has held. His touch doesn’t avoid the tender places—it honors them. There is something profoundly healing about being touched without correction. About being desired without being edited.
We cuddle like people who have nothing to prove.
His body meets mine not with urgency, but with knowing. The kind of knowing that comes from grief survived, prayers whispered, and faith that had to mature before love could. His hand rests—not to claim, but to stay.
The coffee brews quietly, like a benediction.
Steam rises while we remain tangled, breathing each other in. In moments like this, I feel God close—not distant or judgmental, but present. I believe intimacy like this is holy. Not because it is perfect, but because it is honest.
After 50, desire doesn’t disappear—it becomes discerning. It chooses safety. It chooses warmth. It chooses someone who understands that pleasure and pain often live in the same body. Someone who doesn’t rush past the scars but recognizes them as proof of survival.
Faith has taught me this:
God restores through gentleness more often than spectacle. Through mornings like this. Through affection that doesn’t demand transformation. Through love that says, you don’t have to tighten to be worthy.
This kind of intimacy feels like redemption.
Like being met exactly where I am—with reverence for the flesh that carried me through childbirth, heartbreak, longing, and prayer. Like God saying, I remember what you’ve endured—and I still call this good.
So I stay in his t-shirt a little longer.
I let my body soften. I let myself be held without shrinking. After 50, intimacy is not about becoming someone new. It’s about being loved as the woman you already are.
And that—
that feels like grace poured slowly, one quiet Saturday and/or Sunday morning at a time.
XOXO,
Michelle 💛
©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.
Intimately Worded with Michelle 
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