in the fourth hour
of the early morning
my wakefulness
is met with your sleepy stillness

your lips, puffy and pink
dimly illuminated by the
lights of the city,
creeping through our window,
unapologetic.

your eyes create crescent moons
your cheeks, gentle mountains
your unkempt hair
spilling over your pillow
wild and free

you are a work of art

i extend my hand to meet your face
allowing myself to indulge in
the warmth of you
stroking your cheeks
running my fingers through your hair

in your ambit,
the passage of time
is no affliction

it is a gift. it is heaven. it is everything. there couldn’t possibly be enough, time.

enough time.
enough time for you, for me, for us

enough time.
to touch your face,
to watch you as you sleep,
to hold your shaking hands,
to miss you even when you’re not far
to call you on a long drive

to sit together in the stale cool air of autumn

to sit together

in pain
in laughter
in sorrow
in  joy
in uncertainty
in forgiving
in understanding




in love.