what I mean when I touch him there.
And there.
Sometimes I think he forgets, and I need this, this night - not something as mythical as tomorrow, I need tonight to show the savage that though the things I say with my mouth are important, the things I say with my hands are more urgent.
There are days, and the days serve their purpose. I do not dispute the need for days. But there are also nights, and the nights are deep and fierce, and the nights cry out for touch without words, for touch alone, for touch unblunted by sound.
The nights are hungry.
Give me one night to show the savage that though the days are filled with words and duties - none of which are wrong - give me one night to remind him that the nights are not for words, they are not for speaking at all, the nights are for breath and body, his and mine, and all that connects his body and my breath and his breath and my body.
These are things easily forgotten, these are deceptively expendable, the nights. Days are ordered, timed, and cached. You can stack them like calendars, the days, but the nights? The nights are unruly. It would be easy to let the savage wither and become broker, become accountant, become manager, become consultant, and none of these are wrong
but
this is what I ask, and this alone:
one night to remind the savage who he is, one too-short night to tell him (wordlessly) that he is welcome, he is wanted, that if he chooses to reserve the nights for sleep instead of touch I will not leave, I will not leave, but oh I will be sad