Sometimes, when we'd shiver in the night together,
I'd tire and get up in the morning after we'd
fought for the tattered, hole-laden covers, all threads
exposed and dangling. I'd move to the couch to sleep
a little longer because I hadn't the heart
to wake you or break your dreams, fragile as they are.

The cats would nestle for a few hours
behind your warm neck, purring together
their black and white tails entwined in a heart
shape -- remember? almost the same way we
held each other's hands the first time we slept
in your bed. You caught me pulling the threads

of your old t-shirt, worm-like threads
that tickled my skin. An hour
later, when you were fast asleep,
I resumed.
                 Breakfast together
was always a mess in our wee
kitchen, but I still drew small hearts

on your toast. Your own heart
I'd mended with needles and threads
so often before. We'd
then sink into bed, our
brittle togetherness
always healed in our sleep.

We often sleep
with heavy hearts,
though together,
bound with gold threads
linking us, our
dreams. Still, we —

we
sleep,
our
hearts
threaded
together.

As we quietly breathe, sound asleep,
our hearts beat loudly inside, together in unison,
And my fingers are curled around the blanket threads.