There, you stagger me again. You're quite correct: dreams have their allure, but it's the intricacies of life and gesture - imperfect and luminous alike; in their aggregate, they turn astonishing - that spin the lushest fibers of existence. It's the ache of a body that gives yet greater grace to an arm extended; it's the rough scratch of stubble that lights honeyed eyes to heart-stammering softness.
Well. And. Who's to say I don't like my Puppy with a little pillow crease?
Your hair, by the by, doesn't suffer in the least for being pillow-tossed. A truth drawn directly from reality, though I'll grant you that your breath was no sweeter than mine.
Nor any less dire.
The reality: This morning represents the brightest in all my recollection. And a secret (a not-so-secret) for you, Jack? I won't be content with just the one.
The sun will rise tomorrow, and still I will be yours. And - if you can be coaxed into another night far from the farm - you will wake once again to find me eager for your arms.
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Well. And. Who's to say I don't like my Puppy with a little pillow crease?
Your hair, by the by, doesn't suffer in the least for being pillow-tossed. A truth drawn directly from reality, though I'll grant you that your breath was no sweeter than mine.
Nor any less dire.
The reality: This morning represents the brightest in all my recollection. And a secret (a not-so-secret) for you, Jack? I won't be content with just the one.
The sun will rise tomorrow, and still I will be yours. And - if you can be coaxed into another night far from the farm - you will wake once again to find me eager for your arms.
A second morning, Jack. May we?