Sometimes I cup her breast
while she sleeps curled up.
Sometimes it’s just the merest brush of skin,
the toes, perhaps, that meet somewhere
in the shoal of sheets.
Maybe it’s just an arm flung carelessly
or a leg akimbo here or there.
Her flanks are also sleek and smooth,
and is it a dream I sneak
of riding wild and reckless
through the canyons of our sleep?
But mostly, just simply holding hands
stops me tumbling in the void.
I don’t know if she knows
she's my bridge across forever.
Oh yes, I know that I'm a dreamer,
and I know that forever never lasts,
but I still hold her, oh so gently,
through the darkness of my night.

Mike T Minehan