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there's a kind of warmth to you that makes me feel safe. never in temper, not just in embrace, but even in just lying with you, holding you in tugs of your laundry scented sweater, your breath intertwinded with mine, your body not pushed but barely pressed into me. there's an unease in the space between us, 5 inches feels like 500 miles. i can feel your warmth, i ache for it as we sleep, together but apart. your hand under my head feels more natural than the one she has on your heart. can't you tell? your soft breath has me wincing even though it feels nice to know i get to keep you even if for but seventeen minutes. can you feel me, as i tug on your delicate heartstrings, trying to ease it out from under her weight? can you feel me as i squirm, cocooned into you, afraid you can't? your warmth feels nice.
image: Andrew Wyeth, Christina's World, 1948–1948, The Museum of Modern Art
