Soft Sunday sunlight,
streams across the undone bed.
A peek of morning dew,
And the rays envelope their warm embrace.
He moves,
his arm feels leaden,
Almost as if he hasn't felt it in years.
Yet nestled in her softly fluttering eyelids,
Lies the respite to his weight.
He bends his neck to kiss her,
Pulls her closer and rustles her hair,
His body wants to stretch out,
But the touch of hers, envelops him like a drug.
She's giggling somewhere near his chest,
He moves away to look at her smile.
The light falls on her beetle black eyes,
Left eye,
And what's left in the black turns a baked brown.
somehow,
These dually colored eyes,
Carry both the yin and the yang,
And, by design, the truth of their love,
That effervesces,
Like fine moving dust, in fleeting sunlight.
He kisses her again,
And shifts his arm.
To hold his gravity within.
She tugs away,
Crawling across the bed, almost as if to escape.
A sliver of smile on her morning face.
He lets her go,
Only to snatch her back by her feet.
Her feet.
They're exquisite,
Her toes like a famed sculpture,
Her nails painted like a mural,
Her heels soft like the tender rosebud.
He plants a careful kiss.
She feels like the sunshine itself,
Bright and brightening,
Warm, yet without a singe.
Only that: sunlight moves.
Freely, quietly, boldly,
Lighting all that's bare,
Exploring that which waits for its touch.
And she can't.
She can't feel his kiss,
On her leaden feet,
The ones she hasn't felt in years.
Yet his unfelt kisses are felt deeper,
And the lead is a mere feather.
For love lies not where you create it, but seeps through the cracks of that which you exude.