Lovers in a Hot Pocket

It is not fear, my dear, that keeps me here
It is a juvenile resistence to peel back the sheets and face the slap of cold morning air
I cling to our heaven with my head on your chest, and my shoulder snug and nestled under your arm.
Our feet, the friction, like a cricket’s song
and your tenderest kisses placed on forehead’s hairline
Our limbs, toasty pretzel-entwined
our fondling hands speak language signs
And then, how awful we recognize time
 
The shifting blind striped light
The rooster’s pestering crow
nags that we must go
Published in: on February 7, 2009 at 10:32 am  Comments (6)  
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6 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. This moment in time that true lovers know so well is so perfectly captured here, Nora.

    “Our limbs, toasty pretzel-entwined
    our fondling hands speak language signs”
    – simply beautiful…

    • Thanks CT. I try to relive the experience at least every weekend, if not daily. There is a room in heaven where I can do this for eternity…

  2. Loved it..

    shia

  3. Oh, so beautiful. “Cricket’s song”–inspired!

  4. A love poem that, to a reader who has loved, brings back sweet (or bittersweet) memories. 😉 Thank you for sharing it. Cheers.

    • Thank you for stopping by, S.L. Some of us are lucky to have love, and some just barely lucky at the moment enough to have a bed in a warm home. I am feeling blessed. Best wishes to you and yours also…


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