My head in your lap.
Your hand in my hair.
            On my shoulder,
            On my hip,
            Under the blanket
That covers us both.
            A promise.
No sound but the soft folds of paper being turned.
I am not asleep, though I pretend to be.
I wish your fingertips skipping
            across my curves,
            my peaks,
            my valleys.
Each touch a souvenir on my skin.
A secret between us that involves
No words.
The page on your book turns.
I sigh and press my cheek against you.
You smell like fall,
            of moist earth,
            sharp, smoky air
            and barely dressed trees.
If I press my ear to your chest
            I will hear your heart tap out my name.           
            Valves open and close.
Your life coursing through you on it’s way to me,
            Always reaching.
If you press your fingertip
            to that spot,
 just there,
 Behind my ear, your will feel my blood
Sing to you.
It will rise up and flush crimson,
Eager, but Virtuous,
under your tender touch.

The page on your books turns.
            A small exchange between words and body.
My head in your lap.
Your hand in my hair.
I sigh and pull my lower lip in between my teeth.
            Tasting ,
Smooth edged, bleach bypass images, separate and distinct,
Blurred by the constant fondling
Of remembrance.
A filmstrip of experiences,
             shy glances,
             stolen moments.
A story of us.
The page on your books turns.
            A slight brush of paper against skin.
My head in your lap.
Your hand in my hair.
I sigh and unspoken words pour forth,
            Rich jewels, sandy grains, toasted seeds,
            Pooling, filling the spaces between us
Where skin and skin
Cannot reach.

You are the song in my heart,
the pace to which I am set.
I am homesick for the eaves of your arms,
the roof of your chin,
the foundation of your body pressed against mine
When you are somewhere other than with me.
My body aches with memory when you depart,
            Thrumming, swelling
            with each football between us.
Can I lie with you
            next to you
All ways and always
Like this.
As the sun marks time.
As stars are born, live, and die,
And our shadows lengthen until they become absorbed            
            By the darkness that falls around us,
            A cloak of possibility,
             Of promise.

The page on your books turns.
            The hands on your watch usher us past this moment
            and onto the next, and the next.
My head in your lap.
Your hand in my hair.
Leaves fall, clouds mottle the periwinkle sky,
            Studded with birds winging toward warmer climes.
I sigh and the wind trails its fingers
            along the window panes.
The house settles into itself.
I settle further into you.
Your fingers find
            That favorite curl of mine,
wind it around your fingers,
Anchoring me to you,
Will you kneel before me,
Expose the sacred places that are uncharted
             Allow me
                        Let me
Discover all
Will you rise above me
            Lay your bounty at my feet
            Ask of me
                        Beseech me for
All I have
To give.

The page on your books turns.
The cover falls closed with a hush.
My head in your lap.
Your hand in my hair.
You sigh.
Your breath threads across my face,
before mingling with my own.

You are solid.
You are solace.
I am yours.

- original poem by H.G. Dixon 

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