It was last night,
To feel your cracked hand
Resting gently in my own,
The hum of your voice
Tied down an octave
Lower with a deary,
Flowery rasp escaping
The curve of your lips
So soft in the occasional
Murmur of streets lights
Winking past our speeding car,
The way your head
Fell cocked to the side,
Nuzzled in the knitted fibers
Of some patterned scarf
Draped around your neck,
It was last night
As I felt your fingers
Intertwine with my own
That I felt at home
In a world that spins
So fast,
So without worry,
Now, as do I.