Next

I call him, seeking shelter from the storm
Wine revives me and his voice is warm
Later, still, and with all talk replete
Resting on my arm, he falls asleep
And I would hold him, washed upon my shore
Warm, protected, not demanding more
There's nothing here that needs to happen next
This closeness is more intimate than sex
A spell, once broken, that might never mend
This is how to hold on to a friend

Copyright K E Breadmore 2001