Monday, January 23, 2012

They Sleep


He sleeps, finally . . it evades him most nights. He'll lie, wait, think, read, toss, turn then rise resolute that no sandman will touch his lids tonight.  She crashes, deep and blessed by the Sandman's touch. She feels him slide between the sheets, lie prone, straight, one foot massaging the upside of the other in unconscious and rhythmic bliss. Lips gently pursed the passage of air purrs through his Cupid's bow. Chest barely rising, sweet breath percolating through perfect nostrils, audible but soft. Unconscious, his elbow bent, as hand fingers through his hair, strands entwined in forefinger and thumb. A tiny forest of tendrils strangling knuckles.

She leans and rests his hand upon an unconscious torso. Her fingers entwined in his and strokes his face, neck and chest. She rests her arm across his belly and sinks into oblivion. He's stilled, silenced, unaware and free to dream.

She sleeps, face down, belly against crisp white sheets, one leg bared aside the bed. Lips parted and invaded by a mass of curls. She gurgles and snores, his arm across her back, smooths across her buttocks. He's roused and moves to gently push her sideways, change her position, lead her into quiet.  She gently sighs without wakefulness, inhales and repeats until she's silenced and sails in clouds of dreams.

Neither is aware of the other's night time interference. Both unconscious to the other's gentle persuasion. His hand quieting - her arm reaching.  Bodies locked, a perfect fit. Her curves to his indents. Her face buried in his fragrant hair. Legs tangled, linked, warm and secure.

She spoons. He rolls. She nestles into his armpit, taking in the ambrosia of his scent. He parts her hair from her face and smiles. She holds his hand, outlining each of his fingers with hers and wishes it was forever. Such sensuality, while the other slumbers. Time forgotten, no beginning or end just the here and now. Her  hand slides from navel down between his thighs. He feels but does not stir. She moves and glides skin against skin, her mouth exploring. He smiles as if rousing but in his unconscious state remains oblivious. She relinquishes, content to watch him drown in elusive sleep.

She stirs and coughs. His hands upon her back slides across her hips. She squirms barely aware. They roll with perfect synchronicity, but neither feels the contact. Warm, replete, united. Hands on skin, breath on necks all administered in the world between wakefulness and unconsciousness, in moments of suspended time.

They sleep.

2 comments:

  1. Nice! I was trying to tie this to muse and realized not part of Tenth Daughter :).

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  2. Nicely written. I'm torn between finding this sad (I always find out-of-synch relationships sad) and "Oh, for Pete's sake, shove over!"

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