When I wake at night, I reach for the smooth landscape of your back. You instinctual whisper of easement as I curl into your warmth. Some nights, it’s only the memory of you that I find… the cold crisp of your pillow.
There are times when I lay in the dark and listen to you. (Not the loud version… but the dusky breathing before your tempest.) What I hear is the rising of some phoenix within me, the soft flutter of wings. It’s not just you that sighs as I slip my cold breasts against your back.
G.
August 29, 2005
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