In the Co-habitation Dream

we read to each other all day and into the night,
even from outside the bathroom door
until the syllables run out and quiet
is no longer what we run from but lean into
like a palm in the small of the back, fingertips
on a forearm, a cupped hand to a jawline,
which is enough, except when it isn’t
and we hold hands, our fingers, beginning
with the smallest, test the heat of each other’s
need, interlace the cleavage between them
as each knuckle bends forward to embrace
its twin and that is enough, except when it isn’t
and the pillow under my head becomes dented,
warm and I have to turn it over to the cool side.