I shut you around my waist and this is love. Long legs as long as mine, and perhaps more by but few inches. A mouth to open, close and process my penis, under my control and no others. You carry no smell, and although I can only imagine if you did, it would be of me.
Elders, respected and definitely otherwise, have warned me it was laziness to slip my hands into you. Sometimes cold and tired of the cuff, unable to thaw sufficiently, and incapable of creating comfort entirely for both palm and fingers… I turn to you. You always welcome my fiddly, slight ways even when stretching your entire waist from clenched fist. You become ever more comfortable, ever so wider, a part of me to forget but treasure even during periods of such reprehensible disregard.
In other ways I take care of you. Even now picking speckles and crumbs from your knitted brow, double stitched, and lifting you slightly with pinched finger to mindfully keep you from trodden disrepair.
Unique content will overcome tonight when I slip out of you and hold you gently at eye level. Lines and contours match mine now, mirroring my own bumps and shames, as if only to remind me of how ugly I can be in front of television or VDU, spooning or munching. I can only suck my stomach in but it feels like letting loves hand go when I should have held longer. We know each other now like all twins do and to change oneself would only destroy the other.