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.