I always feared that when he touched me he would draw back his hand in disgust. Instead he holds me like old pages chasing the foxes he holds me like delicate lace tracing each vine and makes me feel rare and beautiful.
Each night I ponder on moonlit beams holding my hand Each night I wonder on sun rays dancing on dusty beams And when the wind shatters my porcelain lips, or the stones callous my deviate feet I feel comfort I feel peace