*Untitled

I have been working on this poem for a few months now. It's had many different incarnations and I don't know if this is the best, but it's certainly the most honest.

Untitled so far
by me

In bed. At night. The quiet.
You breathe in, soft, through your nose,
rhythmic and smooth.
I turn off my light,
cover my legs, my shoulders.
I turn on my side.
My eyes adjust to the dark and
I see your hair, your shoulders,
the sheets rise and fall.

I want to reach out,
to touch your back,
to feel your heart on my arm
as I wrap myself around you.
I want to finger your hair,
let my breath rise and fall
with your breath.

Instead, I reach for a pillow,
wrap it in my arms—cold, soft, silent.
Close my eyes.
But I don’t touch.
I don’t touch.
But I feel. I feel the slight press of your body
on bed, the slight tilt
of the mattress as it bends underneath you,
the quiet rap of your heart when I—
pillow in hand—
lay my ear flat to the cold sheet.

And that is enough.
That is enough.

I have been trying for the last few weeks to find the title. Someone suggested to me that "Lust" was appropriate, but I'm not sure. I wanted something that emphasises the desire, which "Lust" does, but I don't want it to be confused with a sexual desire, because it's absolutely not sexual. It's about the love, the longing. I'll keep trying and repost when I come up with something.