So much depends

upon

our relationships.

One of mine comes

to mind in particular.

Hair dark, thick,

pneumatic.

Curls

tangled in tendrils.

Low voice, soft.

He doesn’t startle, lambs lay

sleeping.

Strong,

forever scarred

with patches of freckles from an

all-too-familiar, unsupervised, unapologetic sunburn.

Hands that are youthful but look as if

they’ve seen millenia,

rough to the touch but obtaining a feathery touch of their own.

Laughter fills the mouth, often escaping the

baby pink lips and

allowing for a chorus of other giggles to ensue.

“Goodnight,”

he says grinning, those river eyes

overflowing with emotion,

not ever wanting to let go of my hand.