Comfort

The comfort of a lover.

Eyes the skies of storm as the first drop falls.
Pale and flat.
Translucent.
Yet the light still shines.
It's always shining.
Slow, gentle, the arms encircle.
Warmth.
Safety.
There is no judgement here.
Words as beautiful and unexpected as the first flower of spring.
They don't matter.
It is the breath that carries them.
Sweet and warm, ghosting over salty rivers that flow with each word.
Healing.
Loving.
Mine.

Author's Note

One of the many poems I found in an old journal.