Her
The warm-place smells of him. Everything smells of him. The stone carries his feet-on-the-steps before the sound arrives. The earth gives the clay its smell, and the place smells of the earth before the stone walls, when wounds covered me; he found me, and his finding me was warm.
I know when he has hurt himself. The blood-smell comes through the stone. Its age is because of the stone keeping it for a period longer than my tenure. New, because the leather-thing opens him again.
In the before-place, opening was danger. Something with teeth. Nobody ever chose the opening. He chooses. He is the teeth and the skin both.
I do not understand. But I tend. The closing-warmth in my mouth is what I am. I tend to him because he is mine.
He does not know that he is mine.
