I will come to you, and your caresses will heal my wounds. Your thumb will swipe my cheek, and catch the tears. I will toss my head in protest. I will not wipe away yours. Why erase the tears, yet the devils that caused them dance around us in the room? You will hush me. You will say you do not know what else. I will admit I don’t either. We will be quiet. Our hearts will speak. They will say to love each other still. We will not know why. We will not be brave enough to say why not out loud. The god in you and the god in me will reach for each other. Bodies are black magic—beautiful black magic. You will slide your fingers under my blouse, at my waist, to the small of my back, below my breasts. I will have forgotten how to listen to you. But the spaces below our waists will remember. And, taking almost as long a time as forever, you will patch up my wounds, restore my flesh, slowly, slowly, I will be whole. The scars will show but I will be whole. We will not know why.