Sleep is gentler when my olfaction is full of
smoke and spice and a hint of shampoo
(like Christmas with you in a log cabin)
And my ossicles still vibrate with variations of my name
and low tones of “I love you”s without the actual
three words.

I find peace in the way our knuckles inhibit that perfect fit
of our fingers, but we lace them regardless.
It seems your thumb on my cheekbone
and your strength blanketing my quivering being
are the only things that normalize my oxygen flow
and slow my racing heart after a ****
memory-mare
(nightmares are bad enough
memories are worse)

And most nights,
when your calloused fingertips paint circles between my shoulder blades,
I wake in the early morning
not with a scream
but with a welcoming sigh
to that crooked smile meeting mine.

A night with you is a night safe from ghosts.