The Calling

It is in those last vestiges of sleep when I hear
my name whispered against my ear,
the sound of it so stark and real,
my eyes abandon their dreamscapes,
and I blink awake, not knowing yet
which dimension of consciousness I am in.

In the half light of a dawn not yet realized,
I feel the deep, steady rise and fall
of your chest against my back,
your sleeping face buried deep
in that warm hollow between my shoulders and neck.
Your arm is nested snug beneath my bare breasts,
its crisp hairs tickling slightly,
and I am cupped into your hips and legs
resting like matching bowls in the cupboard
so that for the width of a breath,
I am lost in this moment of quiet comfort.

Then I remember I had heard
someone clearly speak my name
so I listen for the sound
in the house that might indicate
the presence of another not sleeping,
yet everything is still,
but for the beating of my heart
and the rhythm in the resting rate of your own.
I relax back onto my pillow,
but this flutter causes you to stir, and placing your lips
against the side of my neck, you murmur,
in that deep, drowsy voice, "What's wrong?"
and I tell you what woke me in the pre-dawn.

You tighten your arm around me,
pressing me even closer to you if that were possible
and whisper soft against the shell of my ear,
"That wasn't any thing to fear," you say,
"It was just the calling of my heart to yours."


© 2007 Inner Beauty