It is Sunday and
there is nothing but the newspaper
and last nights clothing
scattered on the floor

A trail to the bedroom
from the front door
where little feet and big feet
are tangled, hanging off
the edge of the bed

Sweat on your brow and
my ***** fingernails
from when we crash landed
inside of each other

Seeking safety
in the middle of the night
and I can still taste
the salt of your skin
where it lingers

And you can feel me
from your shoulders
to the small of your back
as I trace
with my lips,
the road maps of where I have been

It is Sunday and
there is nothing but the newspaper
and the way you make me feel
like I am drowning
in the sweetest painful joy