west of the middle

hibernation.

in the first hours past midnight, with snow all around us, white berms up to the tops of the windows, i curl with you on a sofa. my feet are pressed against the warm, strong muscle of your thigh, taut from all those years of cycling hills and mountains, and your fingers curl around my ankle (i’m right here) while the instrumental music you love so much plays softly in the background, the rhythm just a little unexpected against the crackle of the poplar burning in front of us. i can hear the crisp turn of each page of your book through my half-sleep, and smell the sweet, soft waft of bourbon each time you put the glass to your lips. when you pass it to me, i touch my mouth to the same spot on the rim as you have, like a kiss.