The soft sound of his big paw
reaching for mine
across a platonic sea
of king mattress sheets.
The faint longing of a silent request,
a bold yet allowing gesture.
The lightening of scenarios,
questioning the moment
sift behind my eyes:
Does he want to hold my hand?
Thirty-four years of curiosity kindled,
my palm relaxes.
Before my fingers can bloom,
I am comforted by the weaving
of a sure and gentle hand.
A grenadine sweetness
irradiates up my arm
and warms the center of my chest.
The consistent sunny magnetism from his being
brightens my world,
inside and out.
Breathing in the warmth of gesture,
permission to settle deep in my fascia.
The stillness of the cool dark room
enhanced by a low, sincere vibrato:
“I am so glad you’re here, Jen.”
Can I ever let go?
Long talks into the evening
aside the comity of fireplace,
transforming the winter Sedona chill
into a delicious cocoon.
A soul companion with genuine concern,
offering suggestions, not advice,
with confidence and care.
No mansplaining, no ego,
only a genuine rhythm
that cannot be feigned.
Absence. Years and decades go by.
Void of calls, texts, social media.
Complete and utter silence.
In a Trader Joe’s parking lot
a reconnection sparks,
the flint is lit
by the benevolent finger of the Universe.
A wormhole through space
weaves the companions together,
as if the decades were seconds.
As the energy dissipates
the travelers are catapulted
into their singular walkabouts,
affection trusted,
door opened,
left welcoming.
