She does not rustle but her flesh has the moonlit shade of a silver birch
and I stare up at her from bed as she draws her hand across her breasts
and moves through the room across the window.
Her shadow flows across the shape of my body
beneath the comforter
and she vanishes into the other room
while I touch the warmth she left
I can smell her in the pillow, I can feel her shape in the lay of her heat
when she comes back to bed I pull near her
my arm around her side, my knees in her knees...
my face pressed in her back while I drift back asleep.
I dream of rose streams and clouds across her face- pale in the stars
she does not smile but her lips turn up at the corners... a blur.
she does not know how much I need this