I couldn't talk about it, so I wrote a poem

No Rush Hair brush through my hair, no rush. The wrinkles will not slow, but time slows on the satiny pillow, in throes. The bed softly creaks as our eyes speak. They do not stare as the fire sparks. Familiar lips brush tender flesh, kindling the oneness, the forever afterness. The rush of internal flames combust followed by serenity of tousled hair. No rush to run bristles through my locks.