Inches from me
you may not know the wanting
of my hand, illegible on your heaving back,
touching you as you sleep, or pretend to.
(Your days are long and pile up).
It’s possible the dog is in bed between us,
where you’ve invited her.
I may reach across
after an uneasy dream,
terrible men on the stairs, approaching,
a missed final exam that has ruined me.
And I’ll want you.
Not all of you,
but just a moment of you.
Not your entire body,
not the sex of you,
but possibly your arm
or the crook of your bent leg
reaching across to meet my skin.
To say, I am here, and whole.
I can see you falling, my love.
Watch my hands fold together
as a basket.