She Prefers

breakfast in bed

 

I wake her without words,

turn softly, half sunk in

slumber, gently lift sheets

and slide my bare chest

to her silk back.

 

The window will glow with

a young sun’s yellow, and my

torso and hips will fit

the contours of her own.

Unseen, unspoken,

a grin slips to her lips.

 

A silent yawn, gentle breath,

the scent of shimmering

hair—I sift the sleek strands

through hushed  fingers—

 

let us lie quiet a moment more,

 

for she prefers compounded

warmth, soul understanding,

mutual breath, our ribs

to lift, relax as one.

 

A striving sun will break outside,

will spill its chattering troubles—

 

let it and all

the worried world

rise without us:

they will not wrest

our wordless waking

away until

she prefers.

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