March winds arouse box-alders and willows,
their intertwining limbs beckoning
each to the other,
bowing, curtseying, pulling away...
Fingertips on fingertips.
Come to me.
My bedside window, never shut tight,
admits whispers of Spring,
the scent of just showered skin…
I lie prostrate, my face burrowing into the pillow of your hair and shoulder. My hand rests soft upon a mound of comforter. I am not awake, but not dreaming. Wind moans in the eaves. I will not waken. Cool breath on the back of my neck. I shut my eyes. Tight. Feel you. Smell you. Slowly, I become aware of the ache. Pressed between belly and sheet. Searing, painful now, thickening, extending, reaching for the center of you. I cannot move. I lay heavy, sinking, melding with... you.
Persistent rapping on my door. "Hello-o, are you planning to go to the dump today?" Miss Holloway reminds me it is Saturday. Dump day. Not too much refuse... a dollar's worth, and a few recyclables. Then brunch. Eggs and Jimmy Dean sausage, fruit, sesame bagels with butter and cream cheese (and a dot of strawberry jam, like turgid nipples).
Wish you were here.