The rose comes in through the window.
A dusted beam of light,
soft and pink;
Bringing with it the warmness
and sweet melancholia of a dying sun.
We rest in the sheets,
slipping underneath them like honeybees
that climb within the petals of a peony.
Why are you laughing?
Why am I laughing?
I don't know.
I guess we just understand.
As we come up for air,
I see the rose on your face.
You squint against its golden light,
and I kiss you, caught off guard.
Laughing again,
we retreat back under the covers,
just as the pink sunset slips behind the navy mountains.