He asks me what
Color my underwear is.
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