Three Words of Consequence
I’m stroking his sleeping form, my hand tracing the idlest of circles with the deepest concentration. This is the one I have chosen, he who is mine. I sit now, watching the soft rise and fall of his shoulder blades under his slowing breathing. The slumber is deepening under my coaxing, and I feel content. My fingers are widespread, and gently skip across the thick waves of his back, exploring each crest and trough. It responds, resilient in some places, pliant and soft in others. I brush close to the edge of the quilt, under which his lower half is covered, and feel goose pimples rise. Are they from cold, or tremors of the sensation?
His face is turned away from me. How does he always, even after the fall into unconsciousness, know where the glints of my eyes will be? I brush my hand through his hair, thick and coarse; always in need of a brush. He can’t hide it anymore. He said it, he said it tonight.
I think back, to blissful foray past, when moon put her ear to the gap i