The soft lassitude

of a day parked by the fire,

like a car primed for a

make out session between

secret sex singers.

A leg soft and gently

dimpled,

an arm resting on the

pillow.

Outside,

a sea of hats I wear

to greet the constraints

of time and truth.

Fingers graze my nipples,

a hand cups my belly.

I have harvested the

secrets planted in my

garden long ago,

and they sit in a vase

drinking heavily from

their water.

She is my mirror,

but softer and more

at home with placid

calm.

The glass fell away from us,

and now we interlace in

front of a fire cooler than us.