Vulnerable

This morning I wake up to his back turned away
into his untouchable realm of unconsciousness
in which I am forgotten.

Now he moves slightly,
his lips in a remote smile.
He must be dreaming.

Last night I was whiskey-filled proud,
ignoring the lines in the mirror
drawing a portrait
of years, fear, and loneliness.

I had to look no further
than into his eyes
to know that I loved him,
and maybe he loved me.

Now, I wake to remove my sleepy arm from his waist,
hoping that as I turn
he will engulf my small body with his own.

I feel an unstable chill in the morning air
as the warm embrace that surrounds me
comes only from a soft blue wool blanket.

I wonder when I stopped believing
that sex is just sex.
This morning I am afraid of everything.