I don't know when it started,
whether it was the sleepy look you had
or the scratchy voice you claimed
unusual,
somehow I refuse to believe
that you don't naturally sound sexy—
the tenor range smokey as though afraid
someone would discover
the fragility of your light blue gaze.
Light not in hue,
but in weight, mass,
your reluctance to gravity,
and all the earthly elements that try
to pull you down and keep you.
No, they can't, and neither could I
because your entity is beyond slumber,
beyond the human desire to rest
and become one with the quiet night,
the pitch darkness.
Your mind simply do not allow it,
you exist as a singular subject
parallel to the never-sleeping earth;
you recognize the simultaneity of day
and night,
just like you understand how
dangerously close
love and hurt lies
on opposite sides of a coin.
But your hair,
the disheveled calm after a sandstorm,
or just the softest sandy brown I've
ever felt,
how it contrasts with the fullness of
your facial hair
speckled in grey
and an overwhelming sense of delayed
urgency,
like an accident that's sorted itself
out
over time, and pain.
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