Not All The Time

 
Something. Sometimes.
And then, not much.
Sometimes, reached for, and
sometimes, untouched, unspoken,
inconstant, undone...
sometimes, the moon,
...then pushed away
by the sun;
and yet;
here,
and bringing,
only love,
never waxing, nor waning,
it fits
like a glove of
satin, a tender caress,
one hour: more
the next; less, than ever,
made small
un-needed,
footprints in a soul and a heart:
bleeding,
when it is not
quietly
sleeping,
in the warmth
of an honest embrace - when
it cannot, smile
and press it's face,
to the safety,
of a rhythmic chest...
breathing calmly, in a feather-bed
nest,
as certain
as the stars will shine...
given,
over
wholly,
to something
that need not
be defined.
   

Fresh

    

In the twilight, I slipped back

between the sheets,

where I tried to re-enter

my precious sleep, in the empty

space I was expected to be, now that the sun

was rising. A deepening orange,

heated the horizon,

and victoriously, heralded day,

and I knew I was no longer

supposed to need,

all those creases, carelessly made -

I was supposed to pretend and turn away,

from that which I knew to be right, supposed to

see now, the fading night,

as something erased, by dawn. And it was not so

easy then to stay warm; amongst those illicit, untidy thoughts,

without some assurance

inside. I rolled and stretched; a chained sort of sigh;

buried my face and tried to hide,

as the light,

slid deft fingers between the curtains.

Only one thing was all too certain,

when I could bring myself, to draw them :

a crescent moon, hung stubborn, in the morning,

golden against the sky –

and loyally, it hung there ‘til lunchtime,

to remind me, that it

would remember, and keep,

the night.