You
know the softness of my heart, and
the small sound I make when
the first sip of coffee hits;
the shivered purr of pleasure
from lips
grazing the back of my neck in passing. And,
how I take my tea,
without asking,
and whether it is my left hand or right
that carries the small scar of youthful flight.

You,
remember the best shade of blue to match my eyes,
and that I would rather
hang a seashell round my neck
than a flash of aged carbon.
And you
remember I don’t like thyme
but love strawberries, and
would rather be barefoot and campfire brined
than painted, perfumed,
or defined.

You,
share with me the corners of your heart
long dusty and neglected,
bruised and bleeding but not forsaken.
And you
trust me with your pain
and hold me when my sorrows overcome
the lightness of my being, and we become
the ancient thrum of knowing.

k.d.w.
Apr 30, 2017