Sleeping
All of the silly little games
are played with fingers, hands and
toes,
like waking up in the depth of night
to find you
watching me,
or drowsy, pastel-pink-pajama-clad gripping
and kisses that still taste faintly
of minty-fresh toothpaste
or gentle whispers—it's like there's a
thousand miles between us
and it's all we've got left—
but we're still so close
in a useless tangle of limbs
and blankets.
Resting my head on your
sleep-warmed belly
meets with tired sighs
and tired eyes.