Weak under warm blankets,
enjoying the magic of my fingers,
softly stroking your hair,
lips pressed against your volcanic temple,
as I worship my wounded warrior.
I hold you close,
hearts in chaotic sync,
I breathe in time with your sleeping symphony,
Mary Seacole of the twenty first century,
silently speaking your name,
as if it were a healing spell.
I kiss your cheek,
and you pull me closer,
and closer.
