When I lean into your neck

and a sigh escapes my mouth,

I am trying to tell you how to

touch me.

And how you already have.

If your arms hold me against you

like vines, then I am

a ripened fruit

or maybe a honeysuckle.

People who pass by will try

to pluck me from my crux

but this time I can trust

your thorns

even if they’re not there later.

I know this from reading

the light brown color of

your eyes.

From the low hum

in your throat

that judders as you speak.

You make an impression

on my skin

and briefly your intuition

makes me quiver.

I thought I had lost my faith,

but you brought me to see

the value of my instincts

again.

You showed me

that I was right,

or that I can be.

That doesn’t mean

I am not still wary.

I’ll take the comfort

of your chest,

but my eyes

aren’t closed yet.