One of death.
One that can take the heaving sacks of sickness and swallow them. That will kiss my lips and lick between my teeth and suck my tongue til the taste of bile no longer makes me gag.
One that will hold my feet steady in soil as I squat and purge my guts, taking organic matter matronly, kindly, packing it away into the earth to be compost, to be life again. One that spares my dignity and doesn't look to find the shame in my eye that glints so stubbornly. A hand on my shoulder to tell me its ok.
One that has seen suffering and tells me that its all the same. One that knows I feel it infinitely even if the boundaries of my experience fall so far inside the painful circumference of so many others. They still honour mine.
One of life.
The one that talks to me in the daily play or nature, in the serendipity of the sun rising exactly over the acacia tree to create vistas just for me, hearing them in the whistle of the long reed grass. Deafening.
The one that teases fantasies and makes them wet, not judging their shape, their colour their scent, their look, their feel, bringing the thoughts to sweet climax and ecstasy without the sticky smears of shame or doubt,
One that can fill any of the space I create inside myself with the infinite. They grow inside me in the beds I tend for them.
One to honour and be with.