Soft Point

The night's rest is not complete, my mind hovering in that phase between dream and controlled thought, when through a blurred half-lid I see the sillouette of her backlit by the dawn, and my hand travels (because it has to) to the soft curve on her side, my favorite, where her hip meets her waist, where she is so very female, and I embrace for the thousandth time how fortunate I am to share her bed, and her life.  She starts at my touch, and I glide into the small of her back with my palm; slow, rhythmic circles. When her breathing is steadier and heavier I ease the motion and press deeply into her back with my hand, and the wakefulness seems to drain from her in a relaxed wave.  I slowly, ever so slowly back away as she starts to gently snore.  Then (because it has to), my hand travels back to the soft curve of her hip.  I mouth the words "I love you" into her curls, and she answers from her sleep, "You, too."  And I wonder for the thousandth time how she does that.