Dream of Paradise

I had a dream of Paradise. It involved waking up every day next to you, the air filled with the scents of sweat and morning and love. Tracing my fingers lightly over the angles of your face, then down the ridges of your chest, and around, so that my hand lies resting on your lower back. You pull me closer, and we lie entangled, a mass of limbs and flesh, my skin tingling where your hand ran over it.

I live for the anticipation of those sleepy Sunday mornings, where the sun will rouse us from our lovers' slumber. We shall stir, but not move from that heap of sheets, afraid to lose the moment, the lovely contentment. None will dare intrude, and we shall be happy to pretend for a few minutes that nothing else exists outside our own bubble of satisfaction.

The world may beckon and call, and we shall rise to obey its every command, but not before we let ourselves enjoy those blessed moments with one another. They are all that shall matter, when one day we sit ourselves down and count our lives in moments.

I know that those times will come, I see them, hidden in your eyes; I see the promise in your disarming smile. I know that I will feel them when I can sit and watch you sleep.