I trace my hand upon your back and see
Rough fingers curve upon your perfect skin
The softest soft is lying next to me
As soft as night and light as dreams within
The moon shines through the window and you glow
I hear you calling with the softest breath
Should I reach down and have a little go
And thus disturb you in your mini death?
Or is it best to let you rest in peace
So in the morning you'll be good and well?
These quandaries in my mind they never cease
I long but for the perch from which I fell.
Could patience be the key to feeling fine?
Does good greet those who quietly stand in line?