Gentle
I’m home—at least that’s what I tell myself. I’m in my room, and it almost feels complete. The soft glow of my lamp lights up my room just enough to make it feel comfortable, almost warm. I see the familiar, sentimental collages I taped to my walls. It’s almost pacifying. Music plays at a low volume, nearly incoherent, but enough to help calm my nerves. Something is still missing.
I know exactly what it is—who it is. I know who I want most in the entire world. I know what would fill this emptiness in my house. The smell of his washed hair and deodorant would soothe my cold hands. His low, reposeful voice would caress me, my anxious thoughts becoming muted background buzzing. His hug would turn my legs to putty and mush, and when I buried my face in his chest, my body would become a puddle.
He is so gentle with my fragile incarnation. He holds my heart in his hands, close to his chest, close to his own heart. He lifts weight off my shoulders, bearing the hardships, hurt, and heartache with me. My steps are lighter walking our journey together. His fingers intertwine with mine, a small squeeze so I know he won’t let go. His reassurance carries my faith in his fidelity.
He is patient with my solemn soul, nuzzling his nose into my tear-tracked cheeks. He is so kind as to stroke my hair and whisper soft comforts to my quivering lips. I see in his gaze an affectionate fondness meant only for my eyes. A kiss from him is sweetness and ease; his lips are a delicate consolation. He is comfort, he is what it means to be loved. I feel safest in his embrace, home is in his arms.
