Midnight.
Darkness.
The soft yellow light that barely pierces our blinds from the street lamp below.

My senses heighten with each passing second.

I begin to hear the rhythm of your breath. The pound of your heart. The softness of you pulling me closer, even in slumber.

My imagination takes hold.

You are a song.

You are a song without lyrics.
For the most beautiful of symphonies have no words.
You, my love, are a symphony.
Majors and minors.
Strings.
Wind.
Perfection.

Your breath on my shoulder; the melody.
Your heart's rhythm against my breast; the bass.
Your sleepsweet mumbling; the harmony.

Your hand upon my hip.
Our legs intertwined.
We move closer and closer as your song plays on.
Softly.
Sweetly.

I can feel the love on your skin.
Sinking into me.
Traveling deep in my veins.
Filling my breast.
Warming my ribs.

My sweet symphony.

There's a thought that crosses through and by,
to evaporate up to the sky,
fetal posistion and eyelids kissed,
wisped away softly with the mist.

rain, touch my skin
kiss me, softly
your silk burns
lie down next to me
speak what you see
it's your turn

I never cry in front of people anymore.
But when I did it was sonorous and wailing
clinging for support, gasping for more air.
And after the storm had passed and the sea was bright
there was nothing but the quiet and the joy.
I'd drained the worst in to a handkerchief and dumped it
in the bin.

Now, years have passed and life has taught me
one too many tales.
I now know to weep softly, softly in despair
as the scalding water of the shower hides
tears and muffles sounds.
Because those I thought cared lied and went away.