You lie curled up this way by my side
budding rose waiting
to bloom, light plays with
shades on your face like in a Monet
piece: your lips in bloom,
touched up bright and curled hair,
waving in the breeze.
You suddenly proclaim in half-sleep,
'get ready, we've got an invite.'
You even cite
a phone number. As random
as it is, it brings a smile; and
when you ask for the time, I'm happy
you are awake, but then you ask,
'what shall I wear? After all, we
mustn't look plain at the do.'