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It's either loud or quiet. You feel sad today so your orgasm ripples out in tiny waves from your centre leaving you quiet. Speechless. He thinks he's done it wrong. "We'll try again." But it's happened. It's deeply personal. You can't tall him it's like a salvation. That his soft touch brought you a relief you didn't know you needed until you were there. In his bed. The light held back by heavy curtains. Your bodies moving over the landscape of pillows and duvets, blanketed by shadows.
You lie there, your moment come and gone. It's different every time. You try to explain the feeling. Your fingerprints trace circles on his back like they did in childhood when you played with spilled sugar on a Formica table top - the remnants of sugar water coffee experiments as your parents tried to keep their vocal cords stretched to normal tones. Red faces that would stay permanently so until the specter masquerading as fatherhood slammed the door goodbye a few days later.
In the tangled sheets, his sigh shudders through you spooned, sweaty drifting. Words finding empty pockets in meaning like the plans in your head. Anchorless and looking for home.
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