Content

There's no way to describe it
he sees me every day
and still looks at me as if 
he is compelled to touch me *

Each morning 
I turn to him
to find him smiling
He looks at me as if I'm made of
the ethereal darkness before sunrise
and rain

When he lays me down
I forget he's touched me before
he stares into my eyes when he enters me
I close my eyes in order to breathe
when I open them 
he's still watching

I ask him if he's bored
with me
with us
with the monotone days 
of consistent menial tasks
and conversations which bear the weight of responsibility

I ask him
if from the consistent sameness my body feels old in his hands
he says 
the fact he gets it often
doesn't change the beauty of it ~

Here I thought 
I was calling contempt in the familiar

It seems I can rest well knowing
the sloughing off of my old self
the gradual change of my body
the shavings of my mind 
are enough to keep him content

If only he knew
how he feeds the fountain of my soul



Thank You, Nana (*) and Andre (~) for your contributions to this creation =)