Soft as a blanket of fleece, the night pulls the meandering desert sky over the cold naked earth.
Buried under our comforter, like tender bulbs buried until spring, we lie quoting bits of this and that, unaware that far above the constellations the thread that binds sky to earth blurs, so fragile like our beginning.
Stars dance in the sky above, but down here shapes soften, not seen, simply felt, as hands and whispered breath draw fairytale prints on our souls.
Night turns to surround the planets as you yield, turning like a night’s face to settle on me, chest on breast; warm here.
In bed this morning you tucked into the curve of me as our feet danced about seeking warmth. We turn like in a roundabout until it is I who tuck into you . . . until it is I who trace the smooth flat of your back and write our names with my finger and then my tongue.
My heart knits into yours until only one heart can we make of it and as our love sings its song, the heavens grow drowsy with the harmony.