Breathe In, Breathe Out

I come back from lunch and there is a bunch of purple flowers laid across my keyboard. Sage flowers, to scatter over my dinner.

I look like hell, I say, peering at my half-asleep face; not to me you don’t, he says.

The wind howls outside: it shakes the blinds, and bangs against the windmills outside my window and the rains beats against the outside walls. The light from the lamps inside is soft in reflections across the marble table, the painted desk, the newly washed floors.

I want to be in your bed, he says. So do I. Both of us under the covers with the sound of the weather outside.

Wake up with a hand on my hipbone and feel my body uncurl and unravel.