Quiet Conversation

You are never far

from my extremities.

On our bed

limbs journey towards you,

toes rubbing against

the warmth of your legs

nudging at flesh,

kneading through muscles,

digging for the promise

of magnetism.

Hands stretch

for assurance in

bridging the distance

between here and there.

You allow for it,

enticed by the hunger

of a give-and-take affection

as we silently converse.

Whenever I get lost

in a book or movie

I find your fingers

studiously reaching,

magically appearing

under mountains of blankets

for more love

between the quietude

that defines the comfort of us.

And in one moment

you take my hand

gently placing

that last kiss of night

on the palm of my skin

to remind me

of the things

I don’t have to say.

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