He lies beside her
in the tender dark,
counting the rhythm of her breathing
as if it were something fragile.
The distance between them
is barely inches…
a continent.
Slowly, carefully,
he lets his hand descend.
It rests first on her knee,
through the thin cotton of her nightgown.
He waits there,
heart hammering,
as if even that small claim
might wake the years between them.
She does not move.
His thumb traces the slope
where the hem of her nighty
meets warm skin.
The fabric trembles beneath his touch.
Bolder now, because longing
has made him brave.
He slips his hand beneath the cloth
and lays his palm against her thigh.
Her skin is warmer than he remembered.
Or perhaps it is he who has grown colder.
He feels more of her now,
the softened fullness of her thigh.
They have both changed,
flesh settling where youth once held tight.
But he is more drawn to her now.
There is comfort in her curves,
history in the way her body rests.
Still she does not turn him away.
He inches upward,
slowly, so slowly,
feeling the quiet heat
gathering beneath his hand.
Each breath she takes
brushes against his knuckles.
The nightgown begins to gather
at her waist,
soft folds rising
like the lifting of a curtain.
His fingers find her hip,
that familiar curve,
richer beneath his palm.
She exhales.
He reaches inward,
toward the most private memory of her,
expecting the faintest whisper
of what he used to know.
Instead, beneath his searching touch,
there is only…smooth.
Her knees part just slightly,
an almost imperceptible permission.
Her hand finds his wrist,
not to stop him,
but to guide him closer.
Heat gathers.
Breath mingles.
The years fall away
like loosened fabric at her waist.
He leans toward her…
…and wakes.
The room is gray with early light.
His hand is curled in the sheet,
a fist clutching nothing.
She lies beside him,
but farther than before.
Her back turned.
The warmth he felt
was only a dream.
A mercy his sleeping mind allowed him.
He stares at the quiet curve of her shoulder,
with a dull, crushing ache
where longing has nowhere to go.
Still beside her,
missing what has not yet been lost
but feels impossibly out of reach.
Nice! I was let down by the ending, though. Poor guy!
I really like how you described this scene without dipping into more graphic content. This works well as a “longing” poem.
You did a great job with it.