My head lying heavily on warm, damp hands,
The light floods in from the left.
I watch the wrinkled sheet
Jolt softly in time to your
Pulse;
A silent syncopation
To the rhythm of the rise and fall
Of your chest...
The nonchalant way you French-inhale,
Pensive; reveling in your
Perpetual discontent.
Or is it I who inspires the slow smile
To creep across your face?
Come closer, Love.
