Whatever may come next, this much is mine; the silence of the basement, your closed eyes, the single square of sunlight that implies beginning day, my fingers on your spine, the utter way your face looks when you sleep (relax, release), the cool air on my skin, the tenderness that moves to fill me in with silence dark as reverence and as deep. The coming heat of day may yet define this as short-lived, fading with the rise of air on tangents sky-bound and too steep, but morning's peace is true and has no ties to anything not pure and dim and fine, and whatever may come next, is mine to keep.
Author:
Bezel