Listen to poem:
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.
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