It is winter
but the emerging end
and I am warm.
low beams
curtains almost drawn
pale sky shy through the gap
in labour with the dawn.

I wake in the stillness
and in the stillness
the movement of hands
infinitely gentle
smoothing untousled hair.

My body, I remember
has rested, but not stopped.
conscious of consciousness
I discover
a strong heart beating;
quiet blood, in spidered veins.

Held in the heat of requited love
thus I surface, anchored, safe.
‘are you really here?’
I whisper,
twisting to find warm lips on mine:

but the answer is already faint, and fading
into the mists of the wistful night.