Companion

Photo by Yuri Catalano

My language must be written clearly across my face when you see me because you instantly know what to say with sheer confidence, not a wild guess or a gentle mock of my body's seemly mood.

I look at you, and you look back, and though we could be guessing then at what each other is thinking I'm simply wondering if you're ok. Then you come over and sit down next to me, grab my hand and squeeze it hard, placing your head on my shoulder, and it's as if you've just communicated the entire situation in full detail with its pressure.

I scan the room we're in, wherever we may be, watchful eyes as both make their way back to you— the tension before has eased, and I realize we are both taking in each other's breathing, and scent, and heartbeat; the rhythm in our warmth soothing the way a campfire is warm.

You make it incredibly easy for me, that I don't have to do anything but listen. I fell for your voice long ago. We are not really the same pair who needs to argue, dominating over each other; however, I do admire that you're not afraid to hand over the reins (or whip) from time to time.

How not, cause you own them all; every fear that has ever haunted me belong to you. Sometimes I catch you looking at your body and I go over and worship the inches you're thinking about changing. I drown my face into you, your fingers suddenly curled into my hair, tingeing the roots, don't jest, cause you know I will claim you harder, and my lips find the places you have guided me to kiss.

How not, cause you know I love it when you direct, are direct, indirect not always our style. You catch my wit and my sarcasm perfectly. I never worry that something I said was taken the wrong way. You know exactly how to read me, your hand in mine— sitting next to each other... from across the room.