The tips of her fingers slide down his cheek and drift across his neck.
The dark washes over his features, as she traces them blind
And remembering.

With lips she marks a tiny stamp below his right eye.
A flutter of fingertips
And her right hand to his left.

In this enveloping darkness there is only touch to rely on.
There is only skin.
But she is afraid his touch will turn to ice;
A frigid indifference that is reminiscent
Of cold winter curtains.