COMFORT

 It's not love, yet I will it to be

In his arms, my heart rests quietly

Sunday morning with a chill in the air, he holds and warms me

Breathing me in

And although I am not a fan of the holding and canoodling

I must admit in his arms, I dissolve

He pulls me to him and suddenly I am engulfed in a sense of safety

He neither caresses me

Nor fondles me

And yet I feel overwhelmingly calm

Wishing that time would stand still and we lay there forever

I foster no thoughts

I hold no fears

In his arms, I am locked

In his arms, I disarm

And in his bed, we lay

It's Sunday morning and I feel at home

My bare skin in the cold sheets

His warm touch on my cold armor

The music of nature singing us into a tight embrace

I don't tell myself not to feel

I don't deceive myself that it isn't real

Because I do and he is

In that tight embrace

I am unraveled

Suddenly I am not on a cold bed on a warm Sunday Morning

I am a muse in a painting

I am a character in a Jane Austin book

I am a lover in a bed

In suspended animation

The intimacy as potent as the silence

My heart as full as his embrace

My mind as clear as the day

He is my warm Sunday Morning

And I am ever so deserving