The Convalescent

You sleep, the motions of your synapses always energized by the current of playful compassion best defining you and animating that listless, expressive mouth, the little suckling and nuzzling creature upon where I read all of your character and misgivings, the tut-tut puckering of disapproval or innocent consternation as well as Pan's sensuality.  

The morning cools my fingertips, winds carry the memory of many like it, where I threw my unwilling body onto a broken chair to fasten my eyes on a name that had remembered mine while I slept, said "Good morning, Love," a few words with all of my future's meaning, pulling me further away from my spiritual torpor. 

By will urged and love encouraged, I sit here now, convalescing after the frantic race to repair a body self-flagellated when, keenly aware of my servitude, I meant to make the chains visible. The scars tell a story, you said. 

The scars knitting now tell a new story, told by effort and hope inspired to pull and push and strengthen rather than degrade, slice, pummel. Told in a whispered good morning launched in the dark, confident in its humanity and by its godliness with equal humility. Told in our intimacy, alone together in the world yet representing altogether that world. 

In the cocoon of the space we have carved for each, my bones crack back into their original form, my mind looks for streaks of blood and finds only a white canvas that is ours, I smile and smile and smile with the old lust now better informed, and I wait with anticipation for that small perfect visage to peep out from between the slid glass door to say, "Good morning, Love."