Contact Comfort
His steady breathing eases
you into the night as a signal
of his departure.
No longer illuminated by sun or bedside lamp
the space feels like a territory secret.
Not a prize but bestowed by
some cycle of nature or
fundamental limit of stamina.
The late night rain hits rooftop
louder splash later pooling on the ground
does not wake up you but tells you a secret;
you realize what you’ve been missing:
sighs hidden in heavy breathing,
condemnation staring ahead.
Always staring ahead.
This is fucking romance.
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