The Little Things

What to you may be a simple smile,
Or a friendly hug,
Or a waving hand,
Is to me the welcoming steam
Of fresh chicken soup
Over a calloused nose.

It is the traction between cold bed sheets
And my goose-bumped skin,
Sheltering me from the responsibilities
Of days prior.

Your glance in my direction is
The first stream of hot water
That drizzles upon my bare back,
Washing away all uncertainty
In my mind.

As I think of you,
I cannot help but think of all
The little pleasantries
That sprinkle my routines.

The individual brush strokes
That inform a painting;
The planks of wood
That compose a house;
Were I ever a sentence,
I could only hope for you to be
The period that completes me.

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