In the cupped space between
the luxury of silence
and the moth soft frisson
of your hands, I drowse,
recumbent in your slumber.
I should give myself
to the drudgery of dishes,
the relentless tyranny of laundry,
descend to the tasks
of ordinary living but I linger,
tracing uncharted constellations
on your back with my finger.
I journey along your spine,
navigate from latitude to lassitude
to settle sated in the vastness
of this requited desire.
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