Nick of Time

Here in the dark, in these final hours, before the morning light fills the space between us, as the cracking air presses on your lips, when the fridge ends its ravenous rumbling, through puzzled out limbs, hands outstretched, my thumb and index finger encircle your wrist. I tell you, these are tiny, and you don't think so. And no matter how hard I try your breathing is softer than mine. My heart against your back like a lost drum finding its rhythm. I've dreamed about you for the past two nights and now you're lying in the clutch of my arm. My tongue tastes like copper from the tap water I've been downing. It feels swollen and dry but finds yours and is redeemed for a moment. You kiss hard. I tell you not to fall asleep, but your eyes weigh tons and you won't stop checking your phone. I ask if we can still go to dinner, you say, yes, and I hope you can feel good about it. Despite my gratefulness, I still reach into you. You let me onto it, but before I can take off my shoes you've got me back out, laces in hand, bunny-eared things too slow for thievery. I don't mind. Because I asked you to come over, and you did, and that's all that matters here in the dark.