mine, the joyous laughter in the hallway. mine, the flicker of candles on your bare skin. mine, the curtains moving in an evening breeze. mine, the pressure of your palm against my chest. all these gifts, and a million more.
how many times have i said: you leave me, and i grow: abandon me, i am unkempt and unmeted in my ability. but here, at last, in your proud bed i am willing to pause. here i acknowledge the need to express gratitude: here i press a kiss to the curve of your neck.
it's true that i am seismic, eternal, great and growing in the wild ways of the world, a predator and a murmuration both. it's true that i am smaller than a grain of mustard seed. it's true that i am slit open stem to stern, bare-boned and heaving with the guilt of previous generations of my self.
all these things, and a million more: learning to see myself refracted in the decisions and revisions of a distemperate world. mine, the grace of your forgiveness. mine, the pressure of your hot demands. the gift of you, all the ways that i can grow. you perch me, laden, at the threshold of desires i cannot even name.
if, in my last days, i manage still to be greeted by the warmth of your smile, the challenge of your wit, the beauty of your affection, then i will have lived well. i would spend my decades serving, twining, growing up and into the lessons you bear.