The morning after
I am greeted by chamomile and vanilla bean
the faint fragrances of your hair
Running my hand tenderly down your side
so as not to disrupt the sublime movements of your sleep
but rather just incrementally induce that involuntary twitching of your body against mine
In the face of this personal peril
what is it that we have done?
Through the window
slightly open
sounds of a summer countryside as it slowly awakes
the gentle symphony of the lake springing to life
Thinking back on how Peter said it
Sunday night at Balfour's
the look of distressed comprehension creeping across his face
As the sun
newly brilliant
blazes now furiously
bathing the room in its daily ritual of renaissance
I feel you stir just so slightly
In these moments
these seconds
before thought translates into the catharsis of action
eternity lies
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