Your gifts are simple, tracing curves of skin, relaxing muscle;I follow you to a place I have never been,cherished, centered,balanced between your fingertips and my heart.
I listen to your music and cling, fearing loss of these moments where life is simple.
Our exs and children are hiding along with our checkbooks, while we rest in each other's arms and press into each others bodies as if our very bones could hear.
How we belong together is as mysterious as the persecution of belief our respective grandparents survived.
We are both fruits of their survival.
What beliefs do we bear in our own dark times?
Your gifts are simple,and all I need .
By Erin M. W
