At Your Best

It is Friday night and we are at home  on the couch, your head on my shoulder, a well -worn path. This is not the first time you have slowed my hours and yet how the seconds gasp to be doing nothing at all but feeling the universe  wax content in your breath.

It is Saturday night and we’ve left our other lovers  in a lull -aby moon that croons beneath a dusty frame  like a memory of the sun that offers no warmth.  There is only the green  of your eyes ringed with gold, as clear as a summer stream, and I feel  as if I will never thirst again.

It is Sunday morning and the spell remains unbroken, I trace you  in what’s left of stardust. Another leaf has  burst forth from our English ivy. I can’t remember  when I gave the sun back his hours but now  I am at peace with the world and its unloveliness. Yes,  I think would be happy doing this every night of my life.