We lay side by side, with sides against sides,
With backs against the mattress.
We read silently out of the same book.
One of your hands held one side of the book and your other hand
was my pillow.
One of my hands held the other side of the book and my other hand
held my cup of coffee.
The decreasing warmth told me how much time was passing.

We were our own poetry club;
Shortly discussing the piece that we held above our eyes
After we patiently waited for the other to finish
Before we flipped to another piece.

Book down, your eyes scanned the ceiling.
I asked you what you were thinking.
You didn’t know, so you asked me the same.
I thought about my thoughts.
And then I told you I would probably write about this later.
I never lie to you.

My palm adjusted to the warmth of my cup
And I no longer felt the contrasting temperatures.
As the early-afternoon light cut through my blinds,
I couldn’t tell whether two or twenty minutes had passed.

When you kissed my head 
And I looked up to catch your eyes,
My fingers of my once-book-holding hand intertwined with your pillow,
I didn’t care whether two or twenty minutes had passed.