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