Last Night

Wrapped in only the loose, white dress shirt of Your day...

Last night at the window seat in the bedroom, i drew Your name upon the frosted pane; the texture spoke to me as it iced beneath my nails. It shared the tale of how hold cold You could make me feel, how alone and empty.

Last night, upon that window's seat, i wept. As i reached up to wipe away the tears, the dewy droplet caught upon my finger and i retraced Your name upon my window. It melted; the tiny crystals interwoven over the glass; they melted to my touch and i sat there watching... watching as the chill resettled and the tiny lines formed again, etching Your name.

i could smell Your scent upon the collar...

Morning broke, my eyes slit open, peering to the beam of sunlight streaming through the window. Through the haze of illuminated dust, i saw that the beam had pierced Your name, illuminating it, warming it and, in turn, warming me.

Out of the bed i crawled, slipping to the floor to kneel in that puddle of light; arms bracing upon the cushion of the sill's bench, to look up, at You. How i wished You could see me then, disheveled and newly awoken, skin flushed, aware and awake, ready... aching.

"Let me be Your clay," whispered, as though a vesper, "shape me, mold me." But don't make me beg."

Drawing the halves close, to feel Your embrace.