The Comfort Zone

I am wearing time-worn cotton
feels like your hands caress my skin
as my movements stroke back.

I hear the birds singing
sound like us waking up,
chatting in the first light.

Idiots that never fixed
the curtains first before sleeping,
never acknowledged the dark.

Honey and salt on my tongue
taste like your skin and mine,
licked, one after the other.

Keep leaning against our old shed
as it resists and warms me, shakes
my soil down like you did.

How I long to lie my cheek
on your breastbone again.