Being Yours

By K.S. Moore,


The exquisite madness of being yours –
heart full, arms full.

Top of the stairs
you become a ball,
that deep-learned womb
style curling of form
only asks to be held.

I only ask you to take your time.

Already I miss your
puppy-roll-play, feel
scared that your steps
might free-fall,
land in thorns.

I will remember

your hair smelled of kisses –
cheeks petal smooth, ears
just the right amount sticky
out, chin meeting buttercup
light in our garden, eyes
curious-brown as a squirrel’s.

I will continue to find you by moment,
need you, as you need me.



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