Today you brought me soup.
It was perfect,
although its precision had nothing to do with
the gift and everything–
with the giver.
Stretched out across a lazy afternoon,
fingers running along the lines of your face–
through your hair.
my honey-coated throat– happier
with you here.
The sunshine poking its rays
through my window
reminding me that the world outside
my bedroom still exists–
though i’ve no need for it in this
perfect stretch.
Your features just inches from mine,
hand softly touching my hair.
These are the moments
calmly remembered, carelessly created
that stretch from one to the next
and chronicle a journey
that looks
and smells and tastes and feels
like love.
the edges of myself 