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)  
Tags: , ,

The URI to TrackBack this entry is:

RSS feed for comments on this post.

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..


  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…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: