You.

Skin brushes past skin. Even just the ends of their hairs touch. 
But that much. 
It’s enough to make you feel loved. Looked after. Safe touch.

Arms around the waist, neck kissed even if in a passing hug. 
Warmth knowing it’s near even if not always close touch.

And winds comes, sheets fall, lies in linen washed away. 
Colder now, no embrace with tears warm on the face.

Grooves my own, worn with a sense of mine.
You broke me down, but as cliche has it, I’m fine. And if I’m not, well that concern is no longer yours. It was always mine.