Entwined

It’s not often, actually
never before.
Have I been consumed
by a lone happy thought.
You.

One thing I know
for sure. It’s not
the infatuation of youth.
Nor the heady rush
of hormones.
It’s singular, it’s mature.
A single malt.

It’s not often, actually
never before.
That I felt so open, baring
all, not holding
back.

Every wart exposed,
yet not vulnerable.
Happy to be wounded,
even killed at your
hands. Or lips.

Another thing I know
for sure. It’s not
a close friendship nor
a mere shared interest.
It’s deeper, it’s thicker.
A saffron wine.

A kindredness like
only a snake will know
that all snakes
have legs. That with
you, I can be.
Myself.