Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Our touching is a Revolution


She lay her head naked on my chest,
which was her second favorite part of me
(other than my backside).

She thought about the world beyond my room
and its bloodhounds, trained and stupid, nipping at our heels.
Our touching is a Revolution, she whispered.
I wish it were not so, I responded.

I only felt her slide a few times
in the shadow hours she stayed before
she exited the bed.

Go back to sleep, Baby, she said as she dressed.

Then, as silent as the Infinite to the most ardent Dreamer,
she left.

That was our revolution: silent.

And it remains forever so.