February Journal

Your gentleness,
Takes the wild mare inside of me,
And I’m simply a doe in the meadow,
Gingerly approaching your outstretched palm,
Licking a sugar cube from your hand.

Your regard for me,
Demolishes all my defenses,
I’m a marionette whose strings have been cut,
I am nothing but a pile of vulnerability before you,
Yet you pick up the pieces,
And put them in your treasure chest.

I long to lay at the end of your bed till you wake,
To present myself to you like Ruth,
To work among your vineyards,
Just to catch a glimpse of you.

I want to wash your feet,
Cut your hair,
Hold your coat strings,
Stand behind you,
To simply be in the wake,
Of the man I trust and respect.

I want to die,
In the arms of the man,
Who I would expose my neck to,
Because he would caress it with his fingertips,
Because he’s gentle and kind.


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