It's early Sunday morning and I am lying here curled up with you in the warmth of your bed. The sunlight softly pushes through the cracks in your curtains as you sleepily trace circles on my arm, and I'm watching the dust mites swirl in the rays of light. I realise in these early hours of the morning with you in my arms that those dust mites are us, dancing and twisting around each other before they inevitably hit the floor. Everyone hits the floor in the same way, but every single dusty dance is different. In the end I guess it doesn't matter when we hit the floor, as long as we have danced our own dusty dance. I could hit the floor tomorrow and it wouldn't matter, because today I was happy just dustily dancing with you in your bed.