His eyes blindfolded by sleep, he densely gropes about grabbing my hand between both
of his.
Enclosing mine own between his Faberge egg of callouses and scars.
He holds my hand as if made of porcelain between his blonde-tufted, chiseled pectorals.
The tufts shift beneath the weight of our hands with each heave of mellifluous breath, silhouetted by pthalo blue lights from the electronic tomes casting their oceanic net about the room.
Chronographs edge further into their rotation, and his tides of breath bear the gentle weight of his hands more heavily about mine.
A dulling crash of sleep furls about my hand - starting at the top and settling somewhere between the tufts.
I begin to wonder if the heartbeat I feel in my hand is his or mine.
As I begin to drift back to sleep with disregard to whether or not I will wake with a functioning hand; a yawn encompasses his form pulling the Faberge egg apart, and shocking a syncopated known trumming through my hand.
A smile washes over both of our faces; in blindfolded sleep for him, and me with an interest in illumination within his maniform Fabrege clasp.