I dream in the light of thy dying day
of soups and of milkshakes,
of comforting blankets
and of the freedom to choose the time of the dawn.
The night, it creeps up from behind a dark curtain
of roses and freedom,
and renders its loot,
drops the stars at your feet in the last breath of coming.
The coffee cups are ready, steaming
yielding the promise of a dawn to remember,
wherever that is.
I sit at the table armed with love for the dying
day and your body
wrapped in grass
and in leather, in the breath of a dream I have long stopped to dream.
The front door is tired of my looks, my desire
for you and the promise
of a warm cup of sand
in my fingers, my hands you have bound with your call.
On the rim of the wineglass
I can remember your fingers,
can remember your lips.
Wherever they are.
© eva, oct. 00