It's 11:09 and there is only silence.
I used to love this time, after bedtime,
when children were safe and dreaming
and the dryer had finally stopped
for the last time of the day.
Tonight it's just quiet and lonely,
yet if there were people here,
anyone at all
to expect anything from me,
it would be too much.
I miss the solitude
found in quiet intimacy -
thighs that were comfortable
with the other's brush,
head and chest on familiar terms,
hands that fit so perfectly,
mine inside yours
like some wonderfully cliched puzzle.
Where contentedness once reigned,
grows only unrest,
and it seems that to touch
only serves to remind one another of sadness.