we
finally
achieved
the ultimate,
a comfort level,
where what remains
is pink, proud flesh
with no open wounds.

you
tease,
as do i,
at old scars
of past wrong-doings,
pressing the tracts,
as they tense in absolute
refusal to bleed out.

this
means
we can now
pick fun, poking tenderly
at the old sore spots,
gentle and playful,
our laughter replacing
the cries of pain.

could
it be
we have arrived
in that sacred place
where love treads softly,
in all ways, for always,
the fear of ripping flesh
a fading memory?