Cushioned in the dark, I listen to your breathing. Street noises and the rippling night shadows of the trees. Headlight stripes gliding across the room and up the cupboard door. You’re almost asleep. Your arm across me. A heavy comfort in the silvered black. I want to shift. But if I do, you’ll move. Curl your arm away towards yourself again. And I like the weight. The heavy, sleep-induced sinking of your body into mine. More intimate, somehow. More unguarded.
And that’s the part of it, I suppose. It’s only in the dark, in that halfway place between sleep and waking, that the binding slips away. The secret walkways reveal and flash. I’m not afraid here. I don’t question. Or rant. Or display my anger like a peacock’s tail. It’s only quiet. And breath. And you.