My Bed, Your Bed

You collapse onto the bed, my bed, your bed for the weekend. I zip off your boots and take off your socks. I want to take off your belt, or loosen it, and I look around for something to hell, a fork or forceps. I settle for the very tips of my fingers, I make as little contact with the leather as possible. I think about all the times I've heard women and girls both real and scripted talk about the discomfort of bras and the sweet relief of their removal. I wonder if I should bother, attempt the impossible. Could I do it with the shirt on, would you wake up, does your passed out comfort really mean all that much to me. You turn over, moan, back to the ceiling, a small strip of skin breaking your pants from your shirt. It moves, up and down, and you're alive and so am I. So I set a glass of water on my nightstand, your nightstand, and curl up on the couch. It isn't big enough to hold me.