Light spills like milk from the window. It drips bright upon his face. He is naked, he is the milk spilt from the window to the floor. He is sleeping now.
Sun whistles her breeze in the trees this late August and the birds are drunk with birdsong. He sleeps on through the sound. A quiet, dreaming boy. She kneels and kisses his fingers, soft.
Sun dances, warm and alight, across the sky until she is weary, disappearing with sleep herself. Calling, Moon! Moon! Im so tired my love, I will fall a moment and sleep And he will become her in the sky, following after her until sleep becomes of he, too. And the chase will continue into morrow.
But sun and moon are none, because he wakes. He wakes and he breathes slow like the beach when there is only you to watch. He wakes and the colour leaks behind half-open eyes and he is naked, so very naked this cold now-night.
A clock hand whispers the fleetingness of each moment from the wall and a cat drinks from a fish bowl. The