I sit on the couch wearing a baseball hat; kicking my socked feet against the floor; missing the commanding pose of grandiose mountains and the solitude of yellow, grassy spaces. I pull the brim of my hat down; heavy over blood-shot eyes. I flash you a haughty and hung over smile. 

You grin back at me.

Your hands travel down my back in tender, cadenced circles until I free a weighty sigh; I am more contented in this one moment than in the past twenty years of life.

The winter sun is masked by a thin layer of gray haze; it filters through the pine trees from outside the window; careful to sit in your lap just so…

…Lazy like a cat.

Sunday slinks around us in exaggerated motion; it is hushed however ominous; prowling in the shadows—ill-boding and baleful. I count days on fingers; you count stars that flash like sirens from my eyes.

I sink into you; I fall in—gentle like summer rain. I drizzle down glass in quiet, sluggish patterns that you catch and cultivate…

… And then set free…