Norwegian summer night.
She opens her guest room window and
Balcony door to

Give the scent of warm pine and
Sunstroked willow a free tour of her
Apartment on a welcome breeze.

I mute the TV, as she enters her bedroom  
Leaving me shirtless in shorts on her
Sofa, headphones nearly plugged into

My laptop when she requests a tuck-in,
Knowing that granting me the remains of
Her Saturday night sixpack means

She's going to bed alone.
I kiss her forehead goodnight. She steals
A bonus hug, wanting it to

Last until morning though it's
Futile. I bury my face in warm, soft
Neck. She

Releases hesitantly. Smiles.
She has bed. I have Johnny Cash and Chet
Baker, Alan Watts and Allen Ginsberg,

Beer, time, and a window of solitude.
"Silent" and "listen" are spelled with
The same letters.

My impairment is that I am a man.
I love her. And the aloneness that
A man can only obtain when

Even the loneliness has left him.
I can't feel my feet, unless she does what
She has learned to do;

Give me space. Space with the texture,
Colour and pattern of the
Blanket one tucks

Around
The legs of someone
In a wheelchair, gesturing by it:

*I love your
Every single
Circle.