you and me


I’m sitting here, in the dim yellow lamplight, in the deep yellow night, feeling the heavy warmth of you. The world is asleep, it’s just you and me girl. You nuzzle in close and whisper sweet primal newborn noises as you drink. The gently pulling lulls me into a deep, sleepy fog. I am aware of the fullness of you in my lap. Of our closeness. But I’m warm and my eyelids are solid weights. We sleep like this, breathing in each other’s dreams, gaining comfort from each other’s warmth on these cold winter nights.

I wonder, will you remember this? Will your skin retain these memories of our bodies, more together than apart in these initial days of knowing each other? Of my flesh feeding yours, enveloping you still, holding you and loving you, every skerrick of me aching to be near you, to stare at you and freeze this moment in time, to carve your image inside my eyelids.

I wonder, when you’re grown and I’m old, will you look at me and feel a glimmer of this, will something tug at your skin and remind you, will you pause to look at me again and will your bones remember this closeness we share, this inability to be apart, this moment when we are two bodies, but no distance between us could separate us?

I wonder, when you’re sitting in your bed in the deepness of night, when you’re holding your own baby close and breathing her in, when you’re sitting in that warm private cocoon and it’s just you and her and nobody else, will you wonder about us, about this?


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