In the Dark

I write in the dark. I'm used to it, writing without looking.
My handwriting is so bad it doesn't matter if I can see it or not.
No one, including me, especially me, can read these odd scratches that go up and down and round and round and sideways all over the page.
Besides, I don't have my glasses on, anyway.
I write in the dark, by feel.
Words pour out, ink blobs, in almost quiet, skritch of nib in a cheap notebook.
Lying here, ankle clings, calves press tight.
Toes stroke the arch of his foot, his instep, curl in.
But my hand stays here, at the far end of the bed, while the rest slides closer, closer, closer.
I write in the dark, wondering when we will make love again.
Does he hear the pen moving?
What he would say if he knew what I was doing, thinking?
Will this hand, draped across my back, move into a caress?
In the time before, I wrote in the dark, hiding, to avoid a fist.
The dark was my friend. It's still my friend, but I don't hide there any longer.
Dark brings the tocsin whistle when the ducks are quiet.
Let him sleep. I'll wake him when the sky turns to a color not so black.
For now, I'll hold each breath tight to me.