No wind. Blessed silence
after the raging of the night.
Fat snowflakes drift along the windowpane.
We are snowed in.
I turn and run my hand
along the flannel of my winter bed
tracing the memory of you
curled against me
my hand on your chest, fingers trailing
along the broken wing of your
collarbone
your heartbeat echoes in the palm
of my open hand,
moving down your belly and across
the sharp plane of your hip
where we curve deeply
into one another,
memory warming my blood
Snowed in.
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