“She walks in beauty”, Byron’s never been more astute. She walks in and time stops. Tick, Tock, goes the mundane clock, brick by brick the facade of control. Contorts.
She wrestles out of the garb of routine, slips into my arms. The scent of vanilla as she hums Delilah, an ode to lover’s tumultous yarn. I smile into her hair, stop then stare. She looks up, false alarm. The wrinkles wane, in my desire or want. And neither moves, in pulsating calm.
Without wasting much breath, I pull her lips to mine. The world dissolves in passions, sublime. And her eyes close, she’s gone and lost. Lost before her time.
The caress of a lover, as she pulls her sheets and tucks herself in. And forgets the world, lights dim.
It’s us against the world, always. Or the wretched clock perched on the bedside, so says. It blares every morning, much to her dismay.
Her romance with the duvet, ends bleak. She gulps cup after cup of liquid brew, willing against sleep. Before grabbing her keys, looks at me with longing.
“Long day darling, don’t wait up” walks away, smiling.
Nous verrons 