Awakening .2

You dig up my shattered soul. Cradle her in your hands, and you let your eyes widen as  you drink me in. You beam down at me, in a way that makes me think that there could be a way out of the way out. And the longer you hold me, the more deeply you heal me. And your every touch is like lines in a novel, collapsing into each other like letters shuffling across paper. And you guide my hands over you, and show me where the full stops and the commas go, and what to join with semi-colons and where the paragraphs, the long sighs and silences, should slip by unnoticed. And this is natural, like breathing, or like sunlight. And I would like to think that you help me to think, and to breathe through my broken chest, and to believe in the sun in a world void of sunlight. And when it feels like my story has been washed away with rubber, you help me to pick up my pen, and to retrace the familiar lines of my soul onto your soul. So that now I can reflect you, and become myself through echoing yourself. And we can become confused about where the borders go, and about which soul belongs to which body.