rest (or respite)

When he awakes, he will not see my stillness as an act of love.

If i tell him about it, his little foot, he will not even understand,

that within the next three seconds

i was going to to get up from the bed, empty my water,

and then quench my severe and beckoning thirst;

my lips feel stuck together with school glue,

my tongue like an eraser left on the asphalt in midday sun.

The urgency to hydrate is cuddling me more than he and i ever have.

So i stretch, each extremity in turn —

acknowledging and appreciating for once the crisping of my right elbow as it unfolds beyond my head beyond the edge of the bed, the silent but perfunctory pop of the left, and the daring of extending each leg in turn staring two different potential cramps square in the face until finishing their cat-like choreography.

My movement causes you to stir. you make the carnal sounds of half sleep, cartoonish lip smacking included, and just at the end as you settle into a new position, your right leg raises to rest in an a-frame shape, and the tipmost of your right pinky toe touches the side of my left foot. —

From there it was all physics and need. In one lugubrious instant his left foot, toes first, slowly slid over mine, like two drops of oil conjoining in a warming skillet.

I know this feeling, that of the body easing the brain in signaling that someone is there and has not left, the sleep being enhanced with rest.

The feeling of urgency is mitigated by affection, and so here we are.