The waves, the rhythm of the lapping and crashing … my peace exists in that silence between the two
Strong arms, with a grasp that is tender. Takes and gives without asking or regretting. My peace exists in the thrumming of the blood as I battle temptation and surrender to being delicate … even if for a moment.
The words as they flow from within without a thought of what they mean but feeling their worth as the ink wets the paper. That is peace for me.
Being needed — not for tasks or material goods or obligations — but just my mere presence bringing comfort to another … peace sings.
©5/2018
Whiskey Tales and Spells 
Beautiful.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, AC.
LikeLiked by 1 person