Her smile mirrors my emotion
when I share my moments of joy
that are mile markers in my struggle.
She travels with me in and
out of the tunnels where the light
gets swallowed up for moments
at a time,
but she trusts the journey with me.
Her eyes hold me steady when
I am fighting back the emotion.
“I’m going to stop you right there,”
she says. And I let her. I thank her because
I was headed downhill with no
brakes and her nimble fingers
like a conductor (or a magician)
solve me once again.
I keep the love just outside me.
In my pocket like a worry stone
warmed by the flesh of my thigh.
I can’t let the love inside me.
Not all the way.
It’s not that I don’t want to.
It’s not that I can’t.
I don’t trust my love right now.
She is helping me to put
the pieces back together.
She is painting a picture where
I am not the broken girl.
I am the masterpiece in progress,
and when she looks at me with her
elongated neck slightly tilting
to reveal the soft but angled
profile of her nose
I am met by the receptacles of my pain.
Caribbean irises.
I don’t feel scrutinized.
I don’t feel patronized.
I am seen, and I tell myself
it is her job to see me that way.
It is her job to hold her mouth
with her pink lips gently
pursed before they open softly
like the bud of a flower ready to
greet the morning sky.
Her eyes well up just enough
so that I know my pain
has a safe place with her.
All the while I am wishing
the hour could hold more
minutes, but also craving
our goodbye because aside
from this weekly exchange I
look forward to
one long warm hug from her.
I need it more than I should,
and each week I hold on
just a little longer.
But the hug must always end.
Maybe cliches are meant
for the word lovers.
Sapphic dancers twirling to
the tribal beat of suggestion.
She is my healer, and
mentally I must
keep her in this role.
The love goes back into
my pocket.
We exchange smiles and
goodbyes, and I take
sturdier steps back out
into the elements of my reality.
She is filling the part of me
that knows I need to heal
more than I need to love.
But love her I do.
Enough to only tell her with
my eyes.
Enough to push myself
through the hard things,
and I bring my triumphs
back like trophies.
So I can tell her.
So she can smile.
So we can laugh at the mess
of the mortal blunders that
cleanse us for a blissful life.
So we can hold a moment
of silence for the
woman emerging from the ashes
like Aphrodite with no arms,
and the image keeps me honest.
Wherever this love inside me
is meant to go I must heal
enough to have two sturdy
arms again.
To hold. To love. To begin anew.

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