“Come to bed?” His voice, rough from sleep and overuse, breaks through the darkness and finds you where you sit, perched on the edge of the bed like a bird poised to take flight. You feel him move, hear the rustle of the bedsheets, and then he’s behind you, right behind you, warm and inviting. He wraps his arms around you, holding you back against his chest, anchoring himself to you and you to the bed. “Don’t fly away just yet.”
-rjm
loose threads
a smattering of things
recent posts
about
Jo McCrory is a writer and artist living in northern California.
loose threads 
Leave a comment