We were sewn together as if texture
didn't matter: me, all flannel and mildness
and here, and you, with your leather
palms and mighty plans, a heavy-duty
restlessness outlined on your back.
Nobody ever said this out loud but
in their minds they feared that someday
we would be left clutching at frayed hems
and worn-out edges; in their minds they tried
to warn us when the needle and thread
touched our skin, stitching my sighs 
onto yours, weaving all our warmths
into one. In the beginning I kept waiting
for things to fall apart at the seams, but now
there is softness in your searching and
a sturdiness to my stillness, and these days
the way we have come to define peace is,
if we take a closer look, pretty much the
same thing. This is the fabric of us, love—
we have been covered from day one.