Where Dreams Sit And They Soak

There is no particular sound
that rustles through the trees,
different from the music
we listen to.
Your hands grab and hold me
like I have somewhere
better to be,
fingers interwoven
against the middle
of my back,
like tiny branches,
like this is where you
Planned to be,
Settling deeper
Into my chest.

I press my lips to your forehead,
a place filled with dark honey
surrounded by mahogany oak,
where dreams sit and they soak
until they are sticky and ripe.

I kiss you like
the night has no end,
like your bones have endless marrow
like there isn’t another you.
Your arms are still.
Your lips say nothing.
There is no particular sound
That rustles through the trees,
no different than how
my heartbeat
Thumps against yours.