At home, alone

Tonight it’s your shoulder,

your back, having escaped

from the blanket’s protection,

offering a hint

of your perfume, unidentifiable

and undeniably you,

begging to be kissed, daring me

not to wake you,

that’s keeping me awake.

Who knew irony could be

so beautiful

I guess it’s just

another part of you to ponder

while I’m sitting

up in bed, alone, this time

finding that my thoughts have mimicked

my actions, not wanting to move

away from you, fighting the morning,

so tonight they will stay,

on your shoulder blade,

imagining.