The morning after, I am greeted by chamomile and vanilla bean, the faint fragrances of your hair.
Running my hand tenderly down your side, so as not to disrupt the sublime movements of your sleep, but rather just incrementally induce that involuntary twitching of your body against mine.
In the face of this personal peril, what is it that we have done?
Through the window, slightly open, sounds of a summer countryside as it slowly awakes, the gentle symphony of the lake springing to life.
Thinking back on how Peter said it, Sunday night at Balfour's, the look of distressed comprehension creeping across his face.
As the sun, newly brilliant, blazes now furiously, bathing the room in its daily ritual of renaissance, I feel you stir just so slightly.
In these moments, these seconds, before thought translates into the catharsis of action, eternity lies.
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