Life is for lovers.
That’s what you traced with your tongue on my trembling lips,
as we kissed from one day to the next,
moored at midnight but making our way into morning,
the moon shining across the icy, frost filled garden that we shivered in.
It was puerile to be so passionate,
but there was nothing else for it,
and I belonged to nobody else but you,
bright under the sparkling sky,
glistening and growing impatient as your touch began to slow.
I am a raging tempest of hormones and hopes,
hung up on the heavenly idea of something so special that I do not dare to say it.
Will you believe with me?