There was a locksmith in her finger tips. Every one of them showing a different ridge. A ridge of perpetual movement to find the right home. A slipped out the back door without saying goodbye. Ridges lining moments shadows like to hide from. When I hold her hand I don't ask questions. Embracing warmth between summer and the next breathe exiting her chest.

She was made beautiful. Crafted gorgeous. And stood untouchable.

I needed a locksmith. A savior with enough courage to talk back. Someone to open stubborn. She broke me human that night. Cracking my safe full of bad habits and leave out of this.

The lock fell off without a struggle. I was left, naked and afraid. Open and vulnerable.