She thinks I miss her kisses
(I do, of course-they are honeysweet silk)
but that doesn't
keep me up at night
and she says I
talk in my sleep
which is a lie- since I don't hear anything.
But when she comes back into town
with weary eyes, rosy cheeks and a wrinkled shirt
I know she is eager for hot tea, fuzzy blankets,
pjs with clouds
and uninterupted slumber
She apologizes, half awake, as she rolls against me
sorry that she can't muster more energy
As if her warmth is not enough;
as if the movement of her shoulders is insufficent;
as if her skin did not catch the moonlight's reflection.
She does not know that it is her presence alone
silent, but close, that I need.