I tie myself around you. Study the sound of your breath and listen to silent miles race over road beneath. The walls are gone. But your smallness fits. It's the only thing I bring. Will you remember the way the light fell across our bed? The hum of deep Florida heat? The feel of four wall stitched around you? These memories are like the sound of spiders. Ones you have to feel to hear. They are locked away in you, somewhere deep. Miles and miles away. But your face shows no fear. You are wide open. You pour light. And knit it to my bones. Your run with your back to the sky, and spill your laughter all over the floor. Because you know you reside in these arms and skin and bones. You know this love is enough. And that I am the place you'll always call home.