No Rest For The Wicked

Absent of the usual fear I find myself yet hesitant on the bow of his hairline - fingers slowed to motion stop - waiting for the turn away. Still no less I expect the outcome even when the night is quiet - his breath warm against my cheek. Still no less I expect any moment the violent overture of language and fists pushing polar our bodies across the mattress until we taste once again the solitary of pale streets. But then the minutes pass through long unseen hours over quantum worlds which though I can not see I know is there - along that great somewhere where we inevitably part in ways - and here I discover nothing - nothing but the lazy swoop of a turned lip too close to recognize as a smile inviting until he whispers “sleep.”