It’s 4:30 AM, pitch-black and cold.
I spoon against your body
wishing there were no cotton
to separate us, not even skin.
I want to crawl up your tunnel
and hide deep in your belly
before the sun exposes me.
Let me re-gestate, please.
Maybe this time it will be better,
maybe this time I won’t end up
clinging to you like an ice floe
in the middle of the night,
forty and terrified.
If you should wake and want to make love,
I warn you I may stay inside forever.
(published in Crescent Moon Journal; won first prize in a contest sponsored by Desert Moon Review, Jim Corner and Christopher T. George, editors)