Your Face In The Moonlight

by

The birds singing, each to each, in the branches outside the window in the morning.

Your face lit up, eyes wide, your hands reaching for me.

“You are so beautiful,” you said.

Then you kissed me.

Held me.

Melted into me.

I can still feel your embrace.

I can still see your face.

Your face in the moonlight.

I woke up in the night.

No reason.

No rhyme.

Just sudden, as though I had been tapped on the shoulder.

I opened my eyes and there you were outlined bright.

Still.

Perfect in your slumber.

The moon bathing in you in sublime wonder.

I will always see you that way.

Amongst the many ways I see you.

I took your hand and fell back asleep holding it.

I remembered the words from the sonnet I read you in the afternoon.

So close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

That sweet, sacred afternoon, spent on the leather couch in the front room.

Reading Pablo Neruda poetry to you.

Your head in my lap, my hand brushing through your hair, stroking your cheek.

Until you fell asleep.

Outlined soft in the warm air of love drifting up from the rise and fall of your chest.

I read to you long after you lay sleeping cradled against me.

The soft words raining down on your face.

I want you to hear my voice in your dreams.

I want you to know that I am always here.

In the shape of the moon as it waxes and wanes.

In the kiss of warm air on your skin.

In between the songs of lovebirds and the skein of time.

I am here.

Love.

To hold and to have.

Always.

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