"Do you not trust me?" He persists, an age old question that's fades into the wind.

And the answer is always "Yes, I do."
Maybe...

I trust your calloused hands to never intertwine-like a grape vine around a white picket fence as a mean of support- around her slender fingers.

I trust your voice-calming like the rolling waves of the sea- to never call for her name.

I trust your spine to not straighten up in presentation-like a flower draws itself to sunlight-when her presence graces the room.

I trust your lips to never come to a peak-like the tented, enclosed, soft, vulnerable, first peach bud of spring- and caress her blushing cheek.

But,
I do not trust your mind to unavoidably, involuntarily-as naturally as the autumn umber leaves spiral and sing through the air on their path down from a tree-fall in love with her.