Midnight,

and I gaze through an open slate of reality
My cheek resting upon the underside, the softer part of my arm
While you recite:
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!
So I longingly smile at the moon, my peripherals shaking the shadows in the corners
Oh,
your face.
So sweet as your eyes close into the tangled cloth of some sheet
One hand on the small of my back, it burns
The other curves forth and upward,
a slight diversion between me
And the rest of the night
The cold one 'o clock air chills me,
all the small peaks of me rise
I shake because there's a feeling that makes my heart stutter

But then you close the window,
and the feelings gone.