My head belongs in his hands and his lap,
and my tears can be caught only in the
thickness of his faded blue jeans.
My forehead belongs nestled in the nape of his neck.
My hands belong in his hands-
rough and raw and calloused over,
whipped relentlessly by the sun.
My knees belong against his chest,
held tightly to keep out diseases and terrorists and
the realities of life.
My fingers belong against his lip-
warm air bowing life into them.
My feet belong under his thighs,
saving my toes from a frost bitten end.
His cheeks belong under my palm,
rubbing the patches he missed and has let grow too long.
His eyebrows belong between silver fingers,
connected to mine made of flesh,
picking wild flowers-
which have become weeds-
making room for adoration to trickle in.
His back belongs beneath my wrists,
pulling out the stresses of todays and yesterdays
and mostly of tomorrrows.
His lips belong on the cool curves of my uncovered shoulders,
whispering sweetly of strawberries and daisies
and the way little blonde hairs stand up along the dip of the back of my neck,
where brain stem meets spine meets shoulder blades.
His shoulders belong under the weights of my world,
the cover of Atlas Shrugged tattooed nine years deep in his skin.
We are an equation-
an equation to save mankind,
and the equation of a line:
every part matters.
And the sum of my parts is nothing without his.