There is no prelude
only a twist
a turn—
the way the world
wonders in a small room
where nothing waits
but her.

Her lips know
what they are for—
his body,
a compass
without a thought
she moves true

Sleep lags behind
a slow traveler
watching his limbs
remember her—
a hand on the small
of her back
a breath bending
to her collarbone

The dream learns
its lesson—
not all things
need saying
some simply
become—
some are meant to be