My mistress’ eyes are the only thing I see when I sleep.
However hard I try to escape the bounds of boundless affection,
all I do is dream of her glacial gaze,
in the service of a temptress,
reeling all day, long after I have awoken.
It isn’t a bad life, to be in love.
Last night, she told me that I have stolen her sleep,
opening the windows of her mind and gliding in,
visiting when night falls, to leave my love for her to find when morning comes.
Every day, she says, she wakes up with my lipstick trailing down her tender, slender throat.
So it goes.
All we do is dream,
stuck in a cycle of wanting but never getting,
having, for just a second, with closed eyes and distant bodies.
Life is so tough, when my lover goes to war,
I just dream of her eyes, and await her return.