Warmth.

My bare feet rest on the carpet floor

and drink in the luxuriant soft warmth,

as I type this poem,

my legs and arms cool,

my eyes straining against

the on coming sleep;

my imagination shifts to you,

and now I am warming,

the poem is flowing,

as I see you next door curled

into the bedding against

the cold, and happiness

enters my being, as soon

I will share your warmth,

and for a while sleep in your sphere,

and forget the troubles of the world.

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