Its late.
The heat lays across the house, like an unwanted, uncomfortable blanket that cannot be shirked.
It teases the body, pushes it up from under the covers, To lay in its red and orange haze, is to feel the tips of hair curling. To feel the skin bead in fine sweat. It is to lay in the mind and be quiet.
To wait.
I think of you in all my quiet moments. In every loud one too.
In those moments I don't want a gesture of romance. I don't want the flowers or the gifts. Nor do I crave the busyness an evening and two lovers have to offer.
All I desire is a smile. A small laugh before I watch you tumble into sleep. My sweet one. My kind one.
My love.
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