On realising that you are in love with someone even though it's neither original nor planned
Nowadays at night, it’s freezing outside; I keep a sliver of window open for the air, but the wind blasts through the single glazing. We sleep like it’s winter, in pyjamas, underneath a blanket and a duvet and two more blankets at the ready if it gets extra cold. We keep the blinds rolled down to help with insulation even though it means that lack of morning light through windows makes it harder to relinquish sleep.
We haven’t made love in a while- it’s cold, I’m often bone tired and I’ve been sick. It feels better to curl against one another like kittens, to nestle against the warmth his body radiates and let it sink into my bones, my hip and the bed itself seems to become a huge palm within which I am cradled, and it feels like we are tumbling-spiralling-cartwheeling slowly down, sinking into sleep and into each other. Sinking down down down. Into the ink cloud of dark that’s rich with dreams.
I’ve noticed the odd sort of grace with sleepers, their splayed and moonlit limbs.
Sometimes the night stretches out with the vastness of Australian outback, and we are both awake and I want to stay there, just there, just like that with my fingertips on his cheekbone or skimming the smoothly rippling muscles of his back, and his eyes on my eyes and his hand on the curve of my hip. By moments we are silent and infinite, the sky is the colour of secrets and I’m quiet because I love you is all that I can think of to say.
We haven’t made love in a while- it’s cold, I’m often bone tired and I’ve been sick. It feels better to curl against one another like kittens, to nestle against the warmth his body radiates and let it sink into my bones, my hip and the bed itself seems to become a huge palm within which I am cradled, and it feels like we are tumbling-spiralling-cartwheeling slowly down, sinking into sleep and into each other. Sinking down down down. Into the ink cloud of dark that’s rich with dreams.
I’ve noticed the odd sort of grace with sleepers, their splayed and moonlit limbs.
Sometimes the night stretches out with the vastness of Australian outback, and we are both awake and I want to stay there, just there, just like that with my fingertips on his cheekbone or skimming the smoothly rippling muscles of his back, and his eyes on my eyes and his hand on the curve of my hip. By moments we are silent and infinite, the sky is the colour of secrets and I’m quiet because I love you is all that I can think of to say.