There is cold at night
because she needs to be,
without it
she thinks she dies.
Dew on his lips,
and he endures it.
There is slow in the morning
while fighting off compulsive dreams,
spooning air
too dense to scream through.
She hesitates as always,
but he breathes with her.
She wears in bed a long worn jacket,
it does not suit her anymore,
an old and tired piece of fabric
made of whispers of the past.
Its dreadful and she knows,
but still he makes her feel quite beautiful.
He comprehends what freedom is,
the art of lying in between,
that universal is what simple does,
he's the change he wants to see.
His noise is loud and pretty,
and she loves the humming of his brain...
continuously, sin seriously, unknowingly,
waking her and walk again.
making her and talk again.
He lives his life impatiently
and yet,
he's here
and moves with me.