The way that sunlight fills the bedroom, its morning rays gentle and demanding.
The way your hands fill and form with the shape of water,
The way you spoon sugar into your coffee when morning comes,
The way you move bleary-eyed and quiet
through your sacred and silent routine.
The way the phone rings, or the softness of a familiar carpet under foot.
That vast and unbridled space, aching and white and full.
That soft and tender spot of my belly stretching under the pull of your teeth.
The way it all falls away.
The way my name fills your mouth
Like rough pebbles scraping against your teeth.
The way you say “lover,” and “goodbye.”
The way the bed curves and and bends to the
Shape of our bodies
The way the door groans at its opening
The parting of curtains and the shading of light
This is home,
This is home,
This is home.
