In the middle of this back
There's a place for his hand
When it's there touching that spot
Not moving at all, secure and silent
I come to grips with the reality
Of why he is my fortress in the storm
Why he is my Michelangelo fighting my devils with his sword
Why he is my best friend, loyal and learning
To be quiet
When I blurt out what's better
Left unsaid to most,
Which I am not
Caught
In all the love
Of his hand on my back
There.
