when I am far, and I want you near

that nobody's linen, that crisp cotton hangs low over my brow and in our little fortress of sheets by the sea I find your eyes with mine, over the long length of my fleshy torso you are holding me steady, unrelenting in your lock on slippery time, my tender spot rolls me and you are my rock when the salt air breezes my cheek, courses past the tip of my nose, across my firmed breast and through the groove in your hair that I have left with my hands.