The adventure of being in your arms

Let’s escape into another world. A world we can call our own.


Happiness is

lying next to you when the lights have all been put out and there

is only silence in the streets and in the bedroom,
Just wrapped around

in a cocoon of love – blankets and limbs and

pillows and


beating like

they’ve known each other’s rhythm from the first thump

With your eyes fluttered shut, and your mouth

hanging open in occasions

the night wearing thin;

the day creeps up on the window, begging to be seen
a feather on your neck

a whisper in your ear —


“It’s amazing,” he said.

“What is?” I asked laughingly.

“Feelings.” he looked at me like what he meant was obvious, and for a second his eyes just stayed on mine before he went on “When you mix it with things, it ultimately makes stuff better or worse. Like when you give words feelings, you end up with poetry. Give feelings to photos, art photography. Give work feelings, passion. Give paintings feelings, art. Give a person feelings…” he trailed off, eyes resting mine once more. I felt my heart skirt two beats before I asked “What happens then?”

“Beauty,” he paused “blissful and agonizing beauty just ready to shatter at a moment’s notice,”

song-less siren’s sigh

The constant fiddling with everything I touch,
mere seconds have past since I last checked my messages
half smiles for the benefit of my companions
mind wandering to a distant island where soft white sand lay –
soggy and pinkish as you painted a picture from an earlier phone call

And even far away, you manage to tug at my lips
as I stride past your train of thoughts – conjuring a reverie of a sweet
summer song, no matter how out of tune we both are, or how much left our feet can possibly be
laughter gurgles from under as stealthy droplets hug the creases
of laugh-lines

Something stings west my chest, not unbearable
noticeable still, another memory presents itself – the gentle strokes of my hand in your zebra hair, the rare closeness of your warmth: something we treasure
in the stolen weekends – arms draped carelessly around me. steady breathing. eyelids placed neatly, the occasional shudder passes your eyelashes.

And peace.
Just peace. You as a living sedative or a dose of Chamomile tea.
Soothing synapses for a breath then resuming to
blowing stray wishes and checking up on 11:11s
and still our clocks never line up to exactly where we need to be that makes farewells less like being extricated from the embrace of coffee on a sleepless night