Staircase

It’s too easy to tell him how I’m feeling.
I want him
to know me like the staircase
he’s climbed since he was six,
each crack, creak, bend
that he knows to side step.
I want him
to know me like that, to
memorize each birthmark
or bruise. To tiptoe, treat me
with tenderness. But trust me
with each strong step.
It’s too easy to tell him what I need.
I want him
to know the parts of me
where the carpet is worn
and the places where the banister
is polished and new.
To me, love is a path
traveled on. Familiar.
And I shouldn’t have to tell him
how to get home.

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