"I want to", I tell her
and she knows enough to ask
how I feel late at night
under sheets seldom warmed by another
her curiosity layered with tones of tears
and understanding of the banished ones
the forgiving ones
the tolerant ones so often driven beyond
tolerance

"I need to", so I do
and she responds in kind
gestures of anointment, like
pointing to the moon for no reason
or stopping me in mid-sentence to assure me
that silence is not exclusive to the lonely
but a realm where mystery begs for pause
to reveal the magician's secrets

"I have to", and I will
and she caresses my bleeding palms
with a voice blessed with salve
with concern
with a Shaman's gliding touch
that heals from within our cynical walls
and I realize just enough to know, I am

--