Two poems in bed on Sunday Morning

As always, for Allen.

Auteur

On days, nights, mornings when sleep eludes me

I sit down and I write.

I write of love and pleasure

I write of home and life.

I write of jealousy, madness, and as your loving wife.

I write of hardships that linger

I write of problems that fade

I write of dreams and fantasies that come to pass

I write of progress we have made.

I write of longing.

I write of loss.

I write of growing old.

I write of staying young and staying fun —

I suddenly need a hand to hold.

Putting down my pen and pad, I turn to touch your skin

You blearily open up one eye

And flash me that winning grin.

You fall asleep again quite quickly

But certainly not before

you clasp my hand over your heart

And once again loudly snore.

Shelter

This is where you belong, my dear.

This sturdy body where

You are kept inside my bones

You are flowing through my hair.

As my chest rises and dips

With every breath I take

I seek your hand over my heart

My bear, my love, my mate.

This is where my heart is, love.

This is where you stay.

This is where your home is, love.

Please don’t lose the way.