I woke up in her arms
from a slumber of one thousand years.
All that survived through my hazy dreams was my name
and the vague smell of morning dew
and reinvention.
Her shoulders softly ***** down to her naked waist,
but before I can feel her all the way up
Her lashes, like black lace shutters, lift.
I take this sweet moment before she wakes
To watch the way morning-light makes gold out of her skin.
With my lips to her forehead,
I recalled the sounds and images of our *******
and the way we crash down after,
sometimes side by side, like children who’ve played to their limit,
but often one atop another, like lovers who’ve collapsed amidst the fog of their own intoxicating devotion.
Every divot or dimple in her skin is another hiding spot
for a little imaginary love note.
Her black eyes to me are like a dark room, where she takes me
when she wants me alone.
My eyes are blue like the sheet we found ourselves under
the first time I allowed myself to taste that subtle pout
and the sweet, wet innocence of her kiss.
As I watch her rise and dress,
shyly slipping cotton over her sacred curves in this white-gold morning light,
I believe I know her better than she does.
I can tell by the way she pauses to look at me and smile
that she knows me better than I ever will.

Let me worship you, my beautiful angel.
Don’t feel those heavy sounds while you’re in this with me.
Wake up brand new in my arms,
every morning that you love me.