When I'm quiet

"Keep it simple."      
He whispers beneath sheets.      
"Just once." A simple response...    
     
we      
fall into bed by ten    
and stumble across memories there.    
     
I set a glass of cold water on the side      
and turn out the light.    
He pulls me in, a cage of arms.    
     
There's a sleep-shirt involved, until it is removed,    
and I curl closest to the door in case fidgiting commences (which it will.)      
and there's need to move.      
     
The man doesn't mention he might not entirely resent the company.    
I don't mention that he's the creator of nerves.    
The fallen jaw tells me one of us is asleep while I toss and turn until closed eyes look open.    
     
I'm worn from hormones    
and he's worn out from breasts    
though there's satisfaction in it.    
     
The morning comes with a loud alarm and    
another sky of white. Another light against a palette of grey.      
All I want, and I think, for a moment, he does too    
     
is to stay    
somewhere warm, with someone warm.    
When the needs are fulfilled and the fidgiting is done  
   
I am still not ready to add another nail to the coffin.  
There's an entire world outside    
of more important things to do.