Sanctuary
Don't think...he says, and I obediently quell the thoughts, for the moment, and I don't think.
Shhh...he soothes and I bite back the questions and let the carnal pleasures lead me on.
In the last moments of dusk I swing in the hammock strung out on his patio, reading side by side with him as we pass a glass of sweet wine between us.
Birds of unexpected colours and species tweet and chirp, soaring from treetops to treetops over us, a background symphony to our own engrossed discussions beneath the open skies.
As I work he leans in from behind to nudge my cheek with his, his arms snaking around as he envelopes me in a hug, other times bending over me from behind to tilt my head up for a quick upside-down kiss.
While I fret and fidget, unable to sink into slumber, his firm voice assures me with warm tones to relax, rest and that it's okay.
Every time I startle and jump, his voice promises my safety, my comfort and my boundaries, and he always delivered.
It was his voice, it was always his voice that started it all. Firm, warm and confident, a sanctuary of it's own.
Except when is a sanctuary not a sanctuary?
I'm not a fool, as much as I might be behaving like one now.
I know who benefits the most when I don't think, and who would get hurt the most when the sanctuary disappears. I know it isn't mine to have and call my own.
Like a resort with check-in hours, I have to check out some time. And so I'm not supposed to get too comfortable.
So why can't I stay away?