It’s a struggle
to let go
to step back and release
when I want to lean in
when I want to scoop up

It’s a loss
the emptiness
that resides in the void
once inhabited by small arms
wrapped around my neck

It’s a challenge
the balancing act
the delicate art
of being there
while tiptoeing back

It’s a sever
of a limb
an aching cavity
that doesn’t smart
only when granted permission

It’s the answer
to the question
younger me always had
about why my dad
always rubbed my back

The fleeting touch
of part of me
no longer mine
is not a chore
it is a reminder of being whole