It’s late

Too late for complicated words and navigating the rocky white water “how was your day” burdens

Long work hours and mundane worries about co workers and deadlines and drawn-in-the-sand lines

So let me show you without the words

Let my fingers quiet your rants by tracing the inseam of your work pants

Let my lips

Stop your talking

Your attention should be on me now

Let me show you how

I worship the lines you make with your perfect form

Let me bow my head in reverence

And encourage that restful silence

In which you card your fingers through my hair

Tell me “there”

“That’s it”

As if I didn’t already know.

As if I weren’t so familiar with the way your breath catches and rasps when I get this right

Let me take my time

Let me unwind every coiled spring today has wound

So that when we’re done

You can rest