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I lie fractions apart from imagined beings and tangible bodies

His head and shoulders curl

into my lap.

Like a child

he finds comfort in the deep,

old warmth of womb.

My fingers work through

his silk hair, swallow the nape

of his neck and get lost

in the space between

spine and skull.

They push,

rub, a pressure

spelling out unspoken language,

to touch and be touched.

I hold him with acute awareness

of the space that fills around me,

the tangle of knees,

the knots of the spine,

curve of the back.

My hands read the history

bubbling from his skin,

the paragraphs written in the flexing

of thighs and pushing of palms.

My body is written in his story.