After, in the fertile darkness of the room,
a sheet slathered over our lower
legs, your hand, its weight measuring out
our intimate dreams, rests on my thigh, now.
Your palm arcs slightly where
my thigh curves inward. My hand
reaches down to yours, quietly
patting your wrist, then a soft tangle
of fingers. Your sated sigh, full in its breadth
and width, sounds like a hum. Your breath moves
through your hand to my thigh, before you exhale
into the night. Your heart and breath, harbor there
in your hand, resting on my thigh, now.