When it gets cold and chilly, and the desire for comfort commingles with the one for warmth and closeness,
Hands go forth searching, the fingers clasping, curled up into each other,
Bodies curve inward, fitting like two crescents, soft and curved, curled and shaped.
The comforter and quilt and warm woolen blankets all get merged and layered,
coming together, never pulling apart.
It is the state between sleep and wakefulness, it is a half-dream, a silent conversation,
It is home and warm breaths and half-murmured imaginings, am I dreaming or is this real?
Perhaps I am recounting a dream.
But now I am gone again,
and we drift off into this half-lit, humidified quiet, warmed and whirring heater space.