they hear your noise,
your heat, your edges.

I am trusted with the quiet.

with the pauses you don't explain,
the tenderness you don't offer freely,
---------
the way your guard lowers
without a sound.

it is a small, sacred thing ----
to be seen by you
when you are still,
to matter enough to be kept close.

and I hold it carefully.

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 9th of Lexadian, in the year 16 AC.