i want love with sleep in its eyes,
that when it yawns, and stretches
the bedsheets in a sleepy *****,
whips the night out the window
and breathes out a darling "good morning"

i want love that wears pyjamas,
that smells of stale-ish coffee and toast;
slightly-burned, like it always will be,
but on which butter melts, without a protest,
under the spell of our kitchen waltz

i want love next door to lust;
a semi-detached carnal passion
who, once or twice a week, comes for tea,
shares a bottle of wine, and raises a toast
to old times of late nights and later mornings

i want love with sleep in its eyes,
with its forehead rested against mine
with its legs entwined, arms aching,
but enraptured in the same embrace
i've grown to fit into so well