Sunday mornings

I sat beside him long ago when the brush of his sleeve against mine sent fire all down my body.

I sat beside him hundreds of times when his arm was solid and comforting against my own.

I sat beside him when there was such pain between us I shied away from the softest touch of his coat.

I hope to sit beside him when we are old, when his shoulder is no longer distinct from mine, but we are sitting there together melded without thinking into one.