Switching off the bedside lamps with tacit drowsy consent we sigh, content, and close our eyes, roll towards the centre. Knees move up until we touch, hands reach out to meet: mine inside your larger one. Our breathing slows and blends. Under the rounded shell of the quilt and settled, facing in, our bodies form two halves of a nut, complex, neat, compact. And if in strange or fretful dreams we shudder in restless sleep, naked feet respond and slide across to reassure. The moon shines in through a glass door that leads to a private garden: roosting birds nestle…