He rolls over, nestles into her back;
warm, soft hands cupping bony ribs,
slack belly, full hips.
Years they have lain this way,
waning dancers in the twilight.
She turns, his synchronized movements
practiced upon nights beyond number;
limbs flailing, twisting, entwining.
This is comfort, closing out their days
after the world leaks in.
This is life, restoring rhythm until,
like the last smear of a comet’s tail,
their light extinguishes,
and another assumes its place.
image: Carolyn Weltman
I think the words paint an even clearer, more beautiful picture than does the picture!
Thank you for your kind comment.
Words come to me first, then I search for an image that fits. So that might explain your observation 😉