Drowning in the attic,
behind a wingback chair,
the silence keeps a bearing on my footsteps,
maneuvering across the bearskin rug,
to the fireplace, a certain
sacred space for the ashen logs.
The hunter green blanket housing your breathing,
a clear description of the distance between your lips and mine.
You have those morning eyes, the seams of your eyebrows
slightly arched to the glow of the fire,
deep in your hazel eyes atop
your lips, hanging open in a breath.
Soon the corners of your mouth will pull back to
form a smile, as you slowly shift your body under
the weight of the room.