Poets

Against the stone breakwater, only an ominous lapping while the wind surges overhead. Coming down from the mountain, whistling between the arbors and the winding terraces.

You were glad to night, and now you’ve gone away. Flushed in the dark, you put your dreams to bed. But as you fall asleep I hear you say, those tired and sweet drowsy words we left unsaid.

Silhouettes of carved shapes, and outlines of a grins fade. Sheets ruffled and pillows pressed, where shadows once layed.