The embrace made me shudder. My closed eyes and my limp body welcomed the hugging stranger, her arms slowly wrapping around my back. The heat protruding from her body danced across my skin. I didn't try to hide the fact that the stranger had made me melt into myself.

I hung limp like a rag doll inher arms, pondering my unlimited loneliness, basking in the rare moment of love this stranger was giving to me. A gift. I could feel her head rest on mine, nuzzling.

Despite the warmth, I remembered my broken home; my bitter tendencies towards those who passed me by, and the ability I possessed to drive others away. Through my closed eyes, tears slithered down my tingling cheeks. I sobbed; distraught. I heard a 'shush' escape from her lips. I pleaded with myself. I told myself that it was time to start hugging back; to show as much compassion towards others that the stranger had done for me.

I wrapped my arms around her, but felt nothing. No body; nobody. I opened my eyes and the warmth skittered away. I was still standing there, desperate to find something to hug only to realize that my arms were wrapped around myself.

No one was ever there

Her hands lay gently joined,
her breathing breaches a bedroom’s silence


clasped as one, in the very early morn,
her fingers in motion, wavering, *******
a violin instrument, an unseen youthful memory,
her internality rumbles with a quiet litany,
an indecipherable host of jumbled mumbles,
a cacophony accompaniment to her steady breathing

I, study her, as I have done so many mornings prior,
once more, capriciously slipping back inside/beside our bed,
to restart My Sunday morning quiet-like, for as is my wont,
have awoken with the morning dark, treading room to room,
filling my Winslow Homer’s Macintosh mug, with 19.7 fluid oz. of Jamaican beans freshly ground, an instigating odor, a fragrancy
most contradictory, soothing, nonetheless, a steadying, yet a
blaring wake-up call

She, clad inher new festive plaid pajama top,
a creamy fabric that begs for my I-dare-not stroke,
is easy prone and that,
pleases me, for I wish to bed beside her, letting her rest
till her mind texts her body, no more! or the mumbles
grow nagging onerous and stirring and when the disposition is
well-disposed,
she stirs too, after her fashion

with a dancer’s grace, her arm slowly rises, resting airborne,
fingers arrayed and balletic arranged, pointing upwards,
lingering until
the arm falls impromptu, sudden,
as a crescendo striking
her risen hip-mound, imitating a bell’s clapper,
and sleeps no more…

<>

Sun Jan 15 2022
in the wee daylight  hours