The Eye of a storm is like a baby in a womb

Somewhere, in the peach colored globe of light swimming in the darkness of the room,
hovering over the dense colors of the night,
your words touched the sobs in my blood.
and the air, that was still trembling from the limbs of our passion
became still and calm.
I reached out with a finger, and touched it, the air.
It rippled in your hair
and I allowed myself to stroke it through your curls like a mother.
Somewhere, the passion that had been as hard as a sharply-sour, raw apple
softened.
In your words , that licked at it, it melted and
I tasted the warmth of autumn and cider.
Afraid, that the air would begin to move again
I pressed my cheek into your shoulder
forming a cup with our bodies
to fill with our tremors and our lives,
bound tightly with knuckles and fingers cross-stitched to each other.