She reaches out, and the covers heave;

a thick sea moving east, morning peaked, and unforgiving.

Turning,

an arm releases the sounds of being far away.

 

He talks to her in his sleep.

 

She sits, her knees pulled up to her heart,

bent, taken. The still air attracts her gaze to the wall,

 an exact silver,

and she draws her arm up across the running joke of rouge.

 

She talks to him in his sleep.

 

A thin sun is between them, mapped out over his knee,

she smoothes it out and it marries her;

a strip of bold light

running over her fingers.

 

Unsaid, it loiters in sleep

 

and she finds a place on the bed,

her hair questioned around his back,

and tilts her ear to his chest

to listen.