Sunday sunshine breaches dark cloud,
streams through bedroom window,
warming my face–
I stretch over white duvet.
On bedside table, black coffee waits
going cold as
I ruminate start of this day;
“Come what may.”
His scent on me–
Lost within a dream–
or blown away on the wind,
like summer blue sky
in late August–
or Italian lavender.
so sweet with that
and the promise whispered;
I cannot auspicate future need,
or if planets will align.
Revelations are, indeed, for another time.
At most, these memories upon which I feed–
wait as I continue to ruminate–
and hope they do not grow cold.
By A.E. Wallace