there's a comfort in the quiet of an overstuffed couch, underneath old indian blankets. a simple familiarity in touch and fingertips.. speaks better and truer poetry than tumbledown voices. the landscape of your cheek, lit dimly by a lamp left on in the other room, the warmth of your shoulder against my neck, the unobtrusive sounds of breath blend and sigh. it's the feeling of perfect grace, and the knowledge that it is effortless, the ease with which we slip into it at the most unexpected and desperate moments. it's a reassurance unspoken, a surity unproclaimed. there is no need to argue or explain the way our bodies fit together as we lay side by side. it is a natural consequence of a natural confidence, the gentle drift of a boat when the rower drops the oars, the weightlessness of a free fall. and a simpler, lovlier joy than is to be found in all the coffee houses in the city.