How I'll Think of Manhattan While Burning in Hell

We lay entangled
in her vermillion bedsheets
a lazy Friday night
as we wish the rest of them to be
in our midst
after a meal that more than satisfied
our bellies.
There may be wine or cocktails later
but it matters little to either of us.

I feel the suction give way as
I pull my ear from her right shoulder
to praise the silhouette of her stray hairs
in the nightstand lamp--
a lunar eclipse of the fairest kind.
Lowering my head back down
to hear the ocean of her precious inner workings--
the ebb and flow of a system
that I'm thankful to have found
and pray to mix with mine someday.

My sideways view is simple
but as complex as it need be.
An orange glow illuminates the fine paths
in her skin as I breathe in the smell of home.
She shifts her weight from one shoulder
to the other and for the first time in my life
I fall in love with the tendon in a person's neck.
The strap of her bra curves over her left shoulder
not six inches from my face; though straight
as an arrow, it's the most imperfect line
in my present privileged view.

I'd be lying if I told you
I'm this lucky every night
but the greater shame would be
to deny the truth
that when it's there
I see it
and am grateful.