He
He deserves such softness.
Bony hips bruised on the corners of card tables and rough edges
Three different lifetimes worn through his young skin.
Skin bruised beyond its years and demanded tougher every day.
He shall be anointed with the softness of my palms and fingertips
May my lips show him his hunger and thirst is all that matters
The folds and curved edges in my mirror were overfilled in my mind
But it is not my mind that needs cushioning
It is his.
I will be his softness. Whether to lay a tired head upon, or to devour hungrily.
Like a peach, my skin, too, breaks easily, and he may tear into my sweet flesh
But for once, I can see him nourishing himself
And I can be his softness.
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