Here we are in the heart of it, love, the hearkened rise of aurulent dawn all space and weight dissolved a denouement written with lips and fingertip on familiar curve and crevice. The blue morning imbues the room with prismatic iridescence, ascendant luminescence over our languid bodies, violet moons under our eyes and tired limbs intertwined. Were it not for a pale hair in the brush, hasty photographs on a cracked screen or the lingering sweat imprinting your body on the tattered mattress, I’d believe I had dreamed it all- What but grace, its tenderness without provenance or promise of tomorrow, could answer for the low moan of breath and bones restless upon the quilt, quiet laughter in place of attended sorrow? I understand now, the miracle that speaks not of light but of what it shines upon. Here we are at the narrow doorstep of resolution and remembrance. A brush of skin brought out of shadow, inocciduous morning stars that cross but do not fall. 29/5/16.