ELEVEN.

You've grown accustomed to my face.
I wish it so.
Packing a suitcase that seems as temporary as it is finite.
I glance over, unaware and still presumptuous.
I wish it perpetually so, ritualistic as it is terrifying and wonderful.
Yours is the only face I shall ever let see me like this.
You will never cease to frighten me.
With so much more than I could ask of any other human beings.
I was serenely independent before we met.
Content is something merely to bargain with, for I had known nothing of this world.
Like breathing in and breathing out, in and out, out and in.
Your terse and cold glare that never ceases to soften every part of me.
The image that sits lumped in my throat, frightened of disappearing.
Never again may I be content with something less.
Accustomed, perhaps.
I pray it so.
For I've grown accustomed to yours, as well.