Another Place; Tender is the Night

Tangled in the sheets and one another,
Drenched in the cool clean air of early morning,
Listening to the ringing of the sail boat masts
And the seagull laughter carried on the water.

We lay now silent, now talking, resting,
Fingers tracing skin by touch connected.
The greater seperation of our bodies
Reminds us of the need to not let go.
Silently we engrave one upon the other
The memory of ourselves.
You make some coffee, we share a cigarette.
This 4.00 am madness.

And in the end
True intimacy is not measured by the sweated thrusts,
Our  straining bodies, the convulsing cries,
Nor by the passion spent
Or the quality and quantity of pleasure gained.
 No.
It  is your hand
Resting on my arm,
The way our breathing moves and fits,
Your lips against my shoulder,
The comfort of our silence,
The knowing when to cease, to sleep.
It is in these things that we are us,
Where we finally come to rest
And where we know the real intimacy of love