In day-drifts I spend them in lengthy morning sheets,
woven threads striping maypole my legs with yours.
You have them: attentive, unwavering, intent.
Your strong gentleness fills our bed with symphonic hum, a vibrational fugue.
Some tenderness tears at lost time, flaked off bits of skinned cycles round,
a heart with no hands.
Touch: soft swept fingers warm atop cupped palms, like namaste hands, loose prayers.
The edges brush by bristled cheek, full flesh and heated like sun-baked summer squash.
Promises: unsaid, steady and willed.
Ties from September past,
a dozen dozen or more in months melded to seamless years of you and you and you.
Until: always when, yet, but still, then again, for now, someday, and forgive me.