I Asked Her Why She Sleeps Around

I asked her why she sleeps around
she told me
comfort
can be found
in the darkness
before dawn
in the stillness of a
Sunday morning
in the scent of the coffee
being brewed by a
stranger
so civil and kind
in the muffled whispers
drowning out
the echoes of
other sounds.

Sometimes, she said,
it’s the rustling of sheets
the quivering of lips
fresh heartbeats
and fingertips
which waken, for a
while
the sleeping silence
of lonely hearts.

She said this world spins far too fast.