the centre of the bed



I miss the intimacy

the closeness of two bodies

not that

the luxuria wasn’t great

the thrust and heave

the sweat and musk

the spark, the explosions

arching backs like electric currents

but I  miss skin on skin

heartbeat on heartbeat

being held after a nightmare

or when the lightening gets too close

a hug of love, joy or sorrow

hand slipped into hand

walking close; bumping on purpose

curled up in each other –

head in lap

when the bed only had a centre

and the edges were just for tucking in sheets

© adh [a darkened house 2016]


the time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things . . .

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