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I wait for him as he settles down in the sheets
marks his page, and closes his book
kneads his pillow and
shakes his hair a final time for the night.
I try to hold his hand as he reaches for his waterglass.
I need to be held to fall asleep
I need to be rocked and rocked and rocked,
whether by my Yiayia, or the sea,
or, sometimes, the slow thrusts of his body;
I need to release myself for the night in the warmth of love.
but my bedmate,
he wants only the dark
and relative quiet
and a quick peck on the cheek as he relaxes into
my pillow.
He always takes my pillow.
I cherish it, though, because it gives me an
excuse to curve my body around him
nestle my head in behind his
and let his cedar hair fall across my face,
across my nose,

and I pull the scent of his soft hair over me like a blanket,
I rest against his body, and I imagine his arms would form the softest hammock
I'd ever need