It Can Be Wonderful and Terrible, But It Always Tickles the Right Spot

The way grey hits the wooly fibers across his chin,
like individual spikes of a wheel
poking in multiple directions,
with fusing colors like a Monet.

I graze my fingers through the fibers
like walking through cornfields
with long, mysterious paths that
lead to depths I long to uncover.

He rests his hand upon his cheek,
pondering his next move
then stroking back and forth the ebony & ivory,
like the piano keys he gently plays for me.

The tune of his melody, deep and sweet,
intrudes my darkness, brushes away
the sagging of years upon my back,
and aligns our eyes to meet.

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