Beneath me, touching toes you lie
I don't count anymore, rather endure the crunch and crinkle of pretty patterns now in-flow.

Twisted white sheets beckoned bedfellows before but,
now we writhe in wit and wonder:
knowing when or when it how.

Atop the distanced hill we stare
fixated, on future duty, care
about it then, so far away. But comfort
that it binds us now.