Cuddle

I don’t cuddle enough with you, I know. We’re always so tired. Work. Life. Kids. Homework. We crawl into bed and an “I love you” is barely a whisper before the dark closes in and I’m gone. Sometimes I sleep so deeply that I wake up thinking its only moments since we fell asleep. And then we’re back to work, life, kids, homework.

But tonight I will cuddle with you. You’ll lay your face against my naked chest. We’ll share a quiet laugh as you brush irritating strands of chest hair away from your lips. But soon you’re settled and I can feel your breath against my skin. I listen to the rhythm of the air moving through your nose and mouth. Your body rises and falls. I breathe in the smell of your hair and let it tickle my mouth. I fight the urge to brush it away so as not to wake you. My arm, gently wrapped around your shoulder, becomes numb and I ignore it; a small sacrifice so as to not disturb you. You sleep. We are one as sleep takes me even for brief moments; the world does not exist.

I don’t cuddle enough with you, I know. But tonight I will cuddle with you.