your finger tips trace novels
along my spine

your lips bury themselves
within my hair,
chapters following each strand

your whole being turns
my sorry excuse of an
existence into a New York
Times best seller

maybe one day I'll stop getting
our limbs so confused on
whose is whose
and actually climb out of
bed and show the world i am
what you made me out to be.

but for now,
I’m content in the sanctuary of
your arms,
our pulses struggling to
decipher if mine is yours,
and if your’s is mine.  -DDF