Within the night, a black leather book rests on your bed
just like your head does on my lap,
And I think the lamp thinks - it is your hair, the pages I read.
The pages I undulate one at a time
as if I bring tides, calm waves to ripple against my palm.
And if I breathe, inhale my being then exhale deep,
I still think the lamp thinks-
it is your hair, the herbal essence after a bath, that makes my finger
oscillate from roots to ends
until the pressure of my day spirals into a smile where all there's left
are but cities and the beach:
The shores of your mouth inviting me into your dreams.