Reading Poetry to a Lover

Reclining into my chair I take in the room,

This room, not decadent, not a presumptuous room.

It is simple, comfortable, this room.

Lit dimly by the warm glow of lamps, of firelight. 

The couch is deep. Pillows cover it and embrace her.

Opening the yellow, crinkled pages I settle back, aware of her repose.

Aware of the casual way she lounges, gazing at me with lids low,

Gazing as I turn the page and speak.

This room, this quiet room resonates as I pull words from the page and release them,

My voice a vaguely annunciated rumble, the tiny sounds of my lips touching,

The pauses as I raise the glass and wet my throat. 

Immersed in the words, taken in by the shadowy nuance of verse

I travel here, there.  She travels as well.

In my periphery I see her as she watches me.

Her mouth open slightly, neck craning imperceptibly to capture the subtleties.

The flowing robe sits loose on her, a pleasant silhouette against the couch,

Breathing, at ease as I drift through the delicacies of syncopated speech,

Flowing along the meandering paths of a poem. 

Now and again I elevate my gaze to rest on her twinkling brown eyes, half closed but watching still,

Watching my lips as I speak, seeing the motions of my hands as I turn the pages,

Feeling the air as it pulses with the phonetic trappings.

My voice drops in uttering the final stanza. 

A comfortable and contented silence fills the room, this room.

It is not the silence of loss, nor the pain of ending. 

It is the silence of being complete.

I raise the glass, soothing the parched lips, throat.

She slides her head back onto the pillows, closes her eyes and releases a luxuriant sigh,

A sigh of ease. Contentment. 

Basking in the benign apathy of her countenance,

I raise the glass again, taste the easy bite

 and close my own eyes for a moment.