All tenderness, they go their own way--
he to his bed, she to hers.
Generations of husbands and wives
have slept this way, separated
by a night stand or the space.
Just hours ago, hip to pocket,
they lounged on the couch rubbing
so close they couldıve singed
new birthmarks into their skin,
closing into each other, a locket
whose latch opens for sleep.
In their separate bodies, separate
beds, they close their eyes, dream
of another world where not even space
can divide the beginning and end,
where the darkness of the middle
of the night is eased by simple
pressure, the fastening of two
halves, the sway of skin, a weight
soft as a thumb on a bleeding sore.
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