Poetry Exercise

Sometimes I find there is limited content in his mind.

Sometimes through tainted waves of air

I find he is not as he appears.

Yet still I remain here.

His feel of cotton.

I find as soft as a newborn's bottom.

Yet beyond the comfort of the womb

There is an even more comfortable conformity.

It is not the comfort of love.

I believe in no such thing.

It is in being scared to be alone.

It is to be a bird, and him my wing.

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