He knocks quietly at my door
With small hands,
Meticulous
As a banker counting
Money in a safe
Day in.
Day out.
I see the kind,
Weathered face
That like a baseball glove
Has been through good and bad games.
With sure eyes
He draws me from slumber
And reminds me
Of my place in time.
Sunday
Tickles my chin
with warmth
And the taste of French toast
As light as a cloud.
His arm stretches across the chasm
Between a warm embrace of dreamland
And the sure,
steady,
love
That doesn’t need to be spoken.
Words fail
But eyes say all.
The warm chocolate brown
Forces all lies, untruths and insecurities
To melt away.

One thing is left:
Love
That can transform
A young, broken girl
Into a practically perfect princess.