Bound

As we shift and settle, your right arm tucks carefully beneath my pillow, carefully supporting my weary head; your fingers slowly search for mine, interlocking when they’re finally found. Your left arm, draped down your side with hand resting atop my hip, fingers holding slightly to the mostly flesh and hidden bits of bone that reside there. Our bottom halves, a mess of limbs lost to seas of sheets.

As the light from the window begins to fade and you fall deeper into the night, the soft pulsing of muscles tiring, of twitches firing, puts within your limbs a slight dance: Your fingertips sleepily flutter against the soft underside of my palm and, with a subtle falling forward, your arm wraps around my middle, pulling me closer. This is how you hold me each night: softly and with great care to make sure our curves match. This is the closest we’ve ever been without the closeness of heartstrings binding us together.

At what point does this slow and comfortable attachment come together or fall to pieces? And if neither is the desired response, where do we go, what do we do from here?

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