Gentle
I cannot picture the boy you were
without your set of squared shoulders.
As if you entered the world
already braced against it. You love
the linearity of logic, pride yourself
on the weight of your brow.
Your edges are rigid, smooth –
I wonder what knives
have sharpened themselves upon you.
I wonder what other shapes
you might have taken.
The first time you called me gentle –
later, I cried.
I am the water to your rock.
My movements are subtle,
my skin, permeable.
I live in constant rawness
while you hold fast and stoic,
the anti-vulnerable.
I know you could not looked in
and named my tenderness
without having encountered it
somewhere in the cavern of your chest.
I heard a spring in your voice.
When laughter sends waves
breaking down your back,
I see something soft, unguarded,
free of protective shells,
trusting of shelter.