Our first breath does not define us. 

 

I look at you and see a mixed canvas, 

each segment equally vibrant. 

 

(A butterfly with mismatching wings 

still flutters confidently among flowers 

and other wild things:

 

Why should your steps 

carry any less weight than before?) 

 

Sitting cross-legged, knees to knees, 

we search each other’s eyes. 

In dappled light, there’s no absolute shade. 

Chocolate melts to chestnut 

which then burns a golden brown. 

But within the changing hues resides 

a single constant: strength. 

And pressing fingertips to fingertips 

confirms your warmth. 

 

The heart does not care what mortal suit you wear. 

 

Still skin to skin, you gaze 

through criss-crossed branches toward the sky. 

A patch of sunlight 

paints your newly-bearded chin, 

highlights a stray twig nestled in your hair. 

 

Sheltered under this violet umbrella tree,

I pluck the tiny branch with my teeth. 

 

A Black Swallowtail flits by;

a breeze stirs. 

 

Wordless, our fingers slide, lock gently into place.

 

Loving each.

 

Loving the other.