You have your face covered with your hands at the moment, shaking your head as if searching for an answer just out of reach. Your hands are refined and gentle; they reach for new ways of understanding, and comfort you when those ways are not easily found. They are the hands of a gentle man; they are soft, kind and capable.
Your eyebrows are a reminder of who you used to be before white settled on your head and spilled over your chin. The lines on your forehead are even. They are not set in sorrow or joy, their only measure is one of experience and the passing of time. There is the old man and there is the boy. They co-exist happily within.
Did I mention that I liked the coffee stains that have washed themselves into the fabric of your shirt? I do. They represent a time and an experience I did not share, but they appeal to me, the way the skinned knees of a twelve year old boy on an old man’s body appeal to me.
And now you rest, eyes closed, head nestled into the pillow and knees drawn up, a Chopin nocturne encouraging relaxation. A long drive, a long day finally settling over you like a blanket, inviting you to let go and surrender.
I love your body. Mine nests naturally against it. In this moment the touch of my foot beneath your leg affords a powerful connection. How I love the simplicity of us.