Often

He asks me what

Color my underwear is.

Daily.

Wanting to know what

Touches what he has

Marked with teeth, tongue,

Hand and every girth and

Inch of manhood.

From him whom has counted

Skin cells along a thigh,

Eyelashes over my left eye,

The curve of my bottom lip

And shape of my finger,

No detail is absent or neglected.

I am not property, but possession.

Cherished and special,

Craved by the behest of the Creator.

I am a possession.

He calls to me as waters call

And cling to the shore, incessant and quiet.

At each touch, each interaction,

More is exchanged, more is taken

But there, in this touching where

Neither of us are the same.

In this place,

My home is certain, future before me

And I learn to breathe underwater.

-(c) Janelle Fallon, 2018