They lay in bed; he on his back, she
on her side stroking lightly
the side of his face. Once
with her palm, once with her fingers,
again with her palm.

She is thinking about the unfathomable
softness of his eyelids, his angular jaw,
the stubble crawling like ivy up his cheeks.

Her hand inches down to his neck,
then his shoulder. Palm, fingers, palm.

She wishes he wouldn't lie on his back
and stare at the ceiling. To feel close,
she must coil against his side
as if in supplication or prayer.

She takes back her hand and rolls over
on her back, hoping her body language
isn't lost on him.

It is.