That if I could spend all the time and depth of my days pleasing you, it would please me—that if I could anchor your smile in the works of my hands, it would give me reason for joy—I am no Bethsheba, I am not temperate or a peacemaker or a diplomat but that if I could only solve for the problems of your heart I would be at peace—that I can learn patience for the slowness and sureness of your breathing soft at night—that the labor of my body is bent toward the trajectory of finding you at the end of my roads. I am exhausted, emptied, pressed gross and hard into the template of my last ten years but for you my bones creak over old breaks, skin heals over old holes, I am reaching for a wholeness I thought I’d never find. In the center of your mouth under your warm tongue my soul grovels for you.