piccolokirkland

Your hands fold together and you murmur what you need. I pray with you, watching your lips move beneath the tent of your fingers, worn and rough like mine. You move with some sort of masculine grace- not like the smooth and fluid movements of a woman, but as though you are separate from the plane of reality I believe in. As if calculating each stretch of muscle and tendon beneath skin, you rise from your kneel and I follow as I always have, because you stand taller and straighter and look like you know where you're going. And we both walk like that, but you do it better simply because you are you, and I envy you. Regardless, my eyes scan y