In the back of my mind,
there's a picture of us under the sheets.
The light of the gloaming was filtering through the dust on your window,
and through the Venetian blinds,
and through the linen,
making lines across your face that moved when you smiled.
The back of your hand tickled the soft hairs on my face
as I traced the curves of your calves with my toes.
Our delicate and soft moment was so very heavy.
Not heavy like led,
not like the doubt my heart used to carry,
but thick like fog and
intoxicating, like gasoline.
That picture in my mind,
in full technicolor and framed in gold;
Your image in that still frame,
a compensation that I can still hold.