He's Still

His hand when I wanted to climb a tree and when I slipped and fell on the ice.
Quiet walks; silence: a beautiful thing in love.
When he didn't deny his feelings and held my trust carefully, sheltering it against the dark.
Letting me win at chess, enduring my hateful remarks; how wrong I was.
His arm on my shoulder, looking out from a bridge, snow melting on our eyes.
Absorbing my secrets and sins, telling me my faults, praising me for any beauty.
Calling me when I most needed to hear his voice; a beacon of gold reflected on his hair.
And then a last touch, a visitation in dreams, holding me against the dark.