It’s three in the night and I’m under
the quilt, waiting. Not for you, necessarily,
but for the arrival of you. Nothing
opens the air for breathing more than
the way you walk into a room after living.
Nothing undoes the knot in my hair
more than watching you walk toward
the bed, neck bowed, fingers already
tugging at buttons, sliding off socks.
This isn’t a sex thing. Those are mid-day
mid-morning sometimes even midnight,
but never now. This is not sweat at the back
of my knees, the coiled heat of hair at your chest,
the deliberate look of slow undoing
that leads to things less deliberate, more
mashed mouths and long fingers.
This is something that lives somewhere else.
This is the burrow in the wall of my chest
housing sweet ghosts, the weight of your
breath as it winds the world, the point of
your elbow an arrow toward go.
This is sleep-tousled, walls-down yes.
This is lifting the sheets in slow heat.
This is the clock at the bedside
tick-tick-ticking itself to sand.
Image: Taken with iPhone.
Words written in the big leather chair.
Time Taken 6 minutes or so?
Brain on cleaning, laundry, shampooing your rug.