Something about the nights of late summer.

Wrapped in each other's arms. Too warm. Roll apart, there's a chill that the sheet alone can't prevent. Crazy broken shadows on the wall from the streetlight.

He's sleeping, but fitfully. She passes her hand over his stomach, lower, lets her fingers nestle in the hair, still damp from when they made love. Still lower, she cups him in her palm. He's calmer now, less restless.

She wonders how the arc of a romance can follow the form of a year; slow shout of spring, burn of summer, cold and storm of fall and winter. Sometimes it feels like people have no more control over their hearts then they do over the passing of the seasons.

Light from a passing car's headlights spin and dance on the ceiling. A breeze stirs from the window, relief from the heat trapped in the room. Not waking he turns to his side, draws her near; they spoon, legs nestled together and around the familiar feather pillows.

Before sleep overtakes her, her thoughts are filled with the recurrence of the seasons-- you can't stop the cycles, but sometimes you can learn to embrace them.