D'Artagnan's

You reach for me in sleep,
and I, awakened by the ending of a dream,
feel my heart soften at the sound,
that murmur of contentment
that you make,
the strumming of the harp strings in your throat,
when skin connects to skin.

After so many years –
is it 28, or 29? –
I still find this so moving:
the way your hand,
when it finds my arm,
curls so protectively around;
whole body following,
knees pressed in sleep
more tightly into mine,
the curve of a foot, the last to follow,
gliding slowly,
arcing into place beneath my own,
and then again -- that sound you make:
so hard to describe, and yet
each time I hear it,
I hear echoes of a rainy night,
driving home along the river
in a topless car,
the laughing of the breeze
and then that exultant crow,
and your hand,
stealing across the wet seats into mine.

I knew then I was yours,
as I am still,
and will be,
until both our breathing
and our curling
find their rest.