the way he talked to you
with his hands resting lightly,
soundlessly on your waist
stringing together an exhausted rasp of words
spoken to your eyes
but meant for himself
might have been the prettiest thing i've seen since last night's sunset
he spoke a third of a haiku
of the seasons and the nature of your sadness
with a mint pressed against the roof of his mouth and moonlight realizing it should be touching your cheeks and making them glow
pretty patterns of fog
and lilac light
like the barely noticeable tint of your eyelids
"i want you to sleep."
