i want love with sleep in its eyes,
and 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 where butter melts, without a protest,
under the spell of a 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,
whose forehead rests against mine
with its legs entwined and arms aching;
enraptured in the same embrace
i've grown to fit into so well