When We Spoon

Your back, a shoreline my breath returns to, warm as tidewater held past midnight. I trace the hush between your shoulder blades — a silence taught to speak in skin. The room forgets its corners. Only the curve of us remains: two commas curling into a sentence neither of us dares to end. My knee behind yours, a lock finding its key. Even the sheets have stopped pretending they’re not listening. Outside, the moon lingers — a voyeur of our stillness. Inside, your exhale folds into mine like verses learning their rhyme.