Untitled
I lie fractions apart from imagined beings and tangible bodies
His head and shoulders curl
into my lap.
Like a child
he finds comfort in the deep,
old warmth of womb.
My fingers work through
his silk hair, swallow the nape
of his neck and get lost
in the space between
spine and skull.
They push,
rub, a pressure
spelling out unspoken language,
to touch and be touched.
I hold him with acute awareness
of the space that fills around me,
the tangle of knees,
the knots of the spine,
curve of the back.
My hands read the history
bubbling from his skin,
the paragraphs written in the flexing
of thighs and pushing of palms.
My body is written in his story.
I know about this feeling well,
thank you for putting words to it