Things

We all have things.
Beautiful things, big things.
Things that have meaning,
some that gather nothing but dust.
My house is filled with them.
I need them not.
Their value is found only
in their connection to you.

Some crave gold,
but just leave me your pillow,
privy to all your dreams,
Many work for luxury,
but I want your shirt, holding
the scent of your heartbeat.
Give me the guitar, the heat of your
fingertips imprinted on the strings,
that spoon, the one you chose, carefully.

I want to weave your voice
into my hair, etch your laughter
onto my face,into every wrinkle,
I want to stitch the warmth
of your touch to my clothes,
tattoo every breath of you
all over my hands, my lips.

These things will be enough,
I want to travel light,
so I can quickly follow were you
to journey beyond here first,
so do not labour to fill our house
with stuff and many things,
just teach me the melody
you'll whistle guiding me to you.

© Charmaine Fourie