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He sits with his back to me
Up in bed
I, pressed against piles of pillows
He, pressed against me
We say nothing
Our fingers trace lines on each others skin
One leg, raised above the sea of sheets, he maps with his right
hand
I map his neck with my lips
Brushing like dry watercolour
We breathe almost in unison
He rolls his hips and my cock stirs
I am smiling now
Fingers now tracing the contours of him
I extend my arm and map his stomach
Gauging its terrain
My hand slows then forages downwards
Trapped by folds of cotton
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