The plexus settles and you move onto sleep.
Fatigue shushes: surf over shingle,
true in Hollywood. True now
You turn. I follow.

First snore; I slip the spoon
flaying bedroom darkness
for a bedside packet.
Cigarettes spill,
a wine glass upturned, mostly empty.

Oblivious to my clatter
and cloud making,
your body splashes
in the shallows of sleep.

An arm stirs, a foot flicks,
a sharp breath bites at air -
muted actions, tame commitment.
A dream of what? Nightmare,
argument?

I look away onto half formed furnishings.
A slice of streetlight
divides floor and wall, cutting
across my naked thigh.

I sigh out a stream.
Blue smoke romances the light beam -
an effect
I like more than the cigarette.

Folding back into bed,
you murmur a little, not waking.
A touch reassures.
I keep tight hold,
but you fall all the same.