The word on the street is
you're gone,
as seen morning breath will attest.
But in these columns of sunshine
this summer here appears,
and butterfly wings
still have time
to do their things.

After the ordeal
you really make things bright,
replacing tirades of darkness for little skips of light.

Your snore
does not allure
it's clattering cronk drives me mad,
every molecule of it forces me to sad,
I hate it when I think you've stopped and there's
a lull in the house of pain
but then it spluters back into life and invades my space again;
it's obtrusive to my slumber,  it disturbs my beauty sleep,
I try to hold back tears
but I can't help but wheep,
I have no recourse but to nudge you to try and stop the daemon howl,
I need to quell misery's guttural and halt this Hellish growl,
you startle and sit up but soon settle back into the cries of doom: the minions of Belzubub chanting about gloom.
But despite the fact that when you rest you chudder
as a foghorn lacking charms
I am glad when my eyes open I'm near to your arms,
because although you gurgle with terror
and blast a Witchfinder General coo
I'm always pretty happy when I awake with you.

When my breath is your breath
It’s enticing as the assured
of a morning
in a long sunny day.

You're right,
your age is a good knock,
made with umpteen strokes
of splendour
and aplomb release;
i'm glad you came to the crease.

Around you
defences drop,
ramparts rescind,
blocks become silly things;
you open with smile the fleck of tut,
move all to joy
and end the shut.

Your scintillating self
appears true
to me now;
I tilt my head and you're there
being brilliant,
with a ease
all your own.