x.

these poems
are made of candlelight
on a winter’s eve—
soft cat fur laced
between fingers,

gentle piano notes
drifting in and out
as worn pages glide
into the present—
autumn exhaling leaves.

these poems
are whispers, 
spoken slowly, 
caressing the ears
of dozing lovers 

who dream
infinite dreams
on gray sofas,
windows steaming
in exaltation.

these poems hide,
a moment dissolved—
like wildflower honey 
becoming a cup 
of earl grey tea.

lex