...

(I am so f*****g tired)

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I do … want that.

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I want to feel your forearm across my ribs:

That tactile sense

As your fingertips dangle

Against the pockets and indents

That line the shapes of my stomach.

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I want to feel the warmth of your breath

Pacing, slowly, rhythmically,

Through the interweaving at my hairline;

Against the shadow of an earlobe,

The crooked hollow of my collar;

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Against the pores 

That've sent to shuddering down my neck.

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I want to feel your shins along mine,

Interlaced, bumping against my knees,

My calves, against your ankles -

Your painted toenails

As they graze, gently, 

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Against the edges of my skin.

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I want to feel your shape 

Beside me, beneath the loaded weight 

And subtle fragrance, drifting from the duvet -

That rubs, slightly, with a soothing friction

Among the supple textures of the sheets.

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I want to smell those soft notes

That I've grown to recognize, constantly -

Every time you shift your weight - 

As the slight odors 

That I know to define your body: 

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That woman smell, detergent,

Sweat, 

Yesterday's perfume - the smell 

That belongs, only and just

To you.

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I want that; I do.

I want to feel what it is

To fall asleep beside you.

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I want to match your exhalations

Lightly, against mine, and to drift

In the soothing comfort

Of entanglement

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And the softly-snoring luxury

Of your all encompassing, lullaby.

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(author's note: experiment with ambiguity - sleeping with someone as opposed to "sleeping with" someone - sexualized language depicting what almost always becomes a tug of war for space under the covers.)

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