Our pillows wait to be positioned.
There,
I told her, at the top, deftly.
If you like, she answered, but
It's the blanket that counts,
When we're together underneath,
arms and legs entwined,
Our smells merging as they have for years.
I promptly threw the pillows on the floor.
We will not need them tonight,
I said.


    Donald Everett Axinn
    From Travel In My Borrowed Lives

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