I thought

Your night hands were only for me.
Your night words, too.
The softening of the speech,
the quiet words caressing.
I thought the slowing of your breath
was something that my breathing tempered.
And that the warmth of me
is the thing that made your night warm.
I thought that the dark was our dark, 
that that space was our perfect space. 
But now I know that darkness is everywhere,
as is love, and sometimes
those two wiggle toward each other
on their own, not needing you and me.