He had read to her in bed.

Ted Hughes and Dylan Thomas.

With the lights out he turned
to find her for once facing him,
curled into herself, her knees
drawn up to meet his embrace.  

It was so dark.

He said
          I haven’t made a poem for a while.
She reminded him that he had, several.

But not one that says I love you.
I do love you, he said.

And I you, she said,
kissing him
sweetly on the lips.

Goodnight.