I stopped by
because she wanted me to.
I sank into the garden chair,
and she curled into me
three small shuffles and a pillow later,
she was home again:
in my arms.
“Pet me,” she said.
I laughed —
said it had taken her long enough,
that I’d seen this moment coming.
Three gentle strokes,
and her leg found its place
wrapped around mine,
like it had never left.
The garden folded into night,
and we drifted inside.
A shower later,
she came down
in little more than breath and cotton.
“Why me?” I asked.
“The other hands,” she said,
“aren’t as tender.”
That it wasn’t wise
because though nothing happened,
everything did.
She fell asleep like that.
I followed.
Later, I ask — Is this platonic?
“No,” she says. No pause. No doubt.
We’ve settled this much:
she gives nothing.
And yet —
without her knowing —
it’s everything.
The purest form of home:
A stillness wraps me
in ways the world
never could.