verge of consciousness

[metaphorliteral]

I fall asleep next to you,
sated and weary,
and dream of you reading to me
in a low voice resounding like the sea.

When I wake, facedown, dawn tipping the sky,
you are already awake, your right hand holding mine
and your left moving across my back,
a cool and ticklish point to your pen.

"What are you writing?" I ask you,
still half-asleep and muzzy,
and you smile and keep writing on my skin.
"My secrets," you say, "keep them safe."