We get under the blankets. “Should I turn off the lights?”. You nod “yes” to me and the darkness takes over us. “I could really write a poem right now”, you bring me closer. “Soft touches into a dark room bring us light. A blind love. The days pass so more and more will come.”, you’re picking each word carefully while I’m thinking that words are not enough to describe this moment.
Because poetry is the way you’re holding me tighter in your arms as soon as you realize that I’m having a restless sleep. It’s your breath tickling my ear, the way I put the blanket over your arm because it gets cold while it’s around me. Poetry is the way you won’t let me go off your hug even though your arms have gone numb. It’s the warmth of our bodies that lights the biggest fire into the room. And you waking up in the middle of the night, going into the living room and listening to the wind hitting on the window because you don’t want to wake me up. And you coming inside the room as soon as I call your name so our bodies can get intertwined again.
The sun is rising and you’re stroking my legs. Under the blankets we turn into one and our sleepy yet full of lust kisses create the most beautiful metaphor. You sleep peacefully this time only so I can wake you up again with my touch. Our bodies are writing poetry this time.
“Good morning”, we are getting ready for the day and I know it’s going to beautiful already just because I spent the night with you, writing poetry.