Breast

Her right breast

Plenty-filled my left hand

Resting there

Fingers 

Open

Arm draped

Over her sternum.

Her flesh

Mounting and abating

With each drowsy bedtime breath

She took

Dreaming.

Certainly not necessarily of me.

The soft flesh

Inflating and deflating

In my palms and fingers

Like a vital organ

Drumming.

As if I was holding 

The anatomical meat

Of her living heart

Itself.

Bloody

Warm and beating.

The gorey flesh and muscle

Lifting away from my hand

To return full and heavy

While she sleeps

Tranquil

Perhaps

Not knowing my hand 

Is on her breast at all.

And I sleep for but a few hours.

The breast helps.