I count three shooting stars
as the porch swing rocks to the rhythm
of one desperately lovesick frog.
I count three shooting stars
as the porch swing rocks to the rhythm
of one desperately lovesick frog.
Three thirty-three in the morning
I awaken, drenched in sweat.
I turn on the fan,
waiting for sleep to return
wishing that you were beside me.
You gather me into you
Entangling limbs and
Tickling kisses on the neck.
.
Your breath tangles in my hair
Escaping through quivering tendrils
Trembling into the night.
.
Your heartbeats drum against my back
Exquisite timpani.
Time stops.
Night breathes
its peace in
shimmering air
dusted with winter.
.
Night breathes
its silence in
rustling wishes
between sheets.
.
Night breathes
an invitation in
a lingering look
over the shoulder.
.
Night breathes
a promise in
peace,
silence,
invitation.