Nights In White Satin
We fold our clothes piece by piece,
pile them neatly on a chair,
as if with this act,
we discard every part of us that
existed beyond this room.
Your hands become master of mine.
your touch, caressing with a sense of urgency,
confirming that in each separation
we lose an eternity.
And now you're gone.
Only satin sheets on our bed,
their cool soft gloss
luminous in the dark,
remain.
@jjote 062821
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