give me a key
if i could, right now, i would find myself at your door. drawing the key from its chain around my neck, i would unlock your door -- quietly, slowly. i would turn the handle, open the door just wide enough to slide through. ease the door closed after me, and quietly turn the lock.

you are asleep, right now; your room is dark, but for the dim street-light slanting in from the window. i have to stand there for a long minute while my eyes adjust. slowly, objects resolve themselves in my vision. there is the bed; your sleeping form, blanketed, soft. i can hear you breathing, and i am suddenly frozen, trying to still my own breath and stop time; wanting forever to be here, poised on the edge of touching you.

...you turn in your sleep, and the moment passes, falls back into the flow of time and is carried away. i reach down to unlace my boots and, standing, see that your hand is there, in the white light, upturned; your fingers half-curled, as if in invitation.

i accept. as i slide under the blanket beside you, you move without waking to make room for me, to wrap your arms around me. your skin is warm and i nestle into you, in rhapsody at the scent of your hair, the curve of your neck against my cheek. it is so easy to be here, such a simple thing. i close my eyes. there will be time for questions in the morning.


[you know who you are.]