When I'm quiet
"Keep it simple."
He whispers beneath sheets.
"Just once." A simple response...
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.