Daybreak creeps across our cloud of bed sheets,
and from underneath, the golden circles in your chandelier
make crossed figures like stick men and asterisks;
we float easily in time between my business suits and suitcases
and your grey camera backpack.
You’re the accidental legend, Parisian harlequin,
elusive in plain sight, intolerant of superficial tourists or prize fighters;
you call me calming, tether, man.
I’m the pensive sketcher, buried with books and structure,
campfire guide, patient and kind;
I call you canvass for kisses, artist and muse, inspiration.
In chance orbits, we’ve converged as keen observers geared for service,
heralds of sincerity, products of family yet pathfinders.
We’re late-night whiskey by a picture-framed pier,
chilly wind-swept perch of grass above the city,
square pegs on purpose, outer- and introspective,
tender touching each other in these intersections.
So I pray for sacred lazy Sundays where my smile doesn’t fade
and my hands never tire of their game.
Providence placed a cloud in empty space where together we can float,
practice patience, speak love languages.
But far from fragile wisp, this cloud widens and solidifies,
connective comfort filling the gaps between our worlds as they circle.
C.McClean
