Sometimes I think of the morning time, in the blue hour, when I am awoken by the shine coming through the corners of the window curtains don’t cover.
In the blue hour everything is enchanted, life feels soft.
I turn away from the wall and look at the naked beauty lying next to me, sleeping. Sleeping soft like the sky, breathing calm like a gust of wind.
I smile sweetly at this moment of waking being so perfect. He is Pan, a God, this man in my bed.
The blue hour is the best hour for kissing a God awake, behind his ears so he rouses with a pleased groan, his eyelids because they are still closed.
I want to kiss his mouth but I wait until he pulls the sheet over our faces, blue light shining through the white sheet.
Turning everything: my skin, his face, and the curves of both our bodies, angelic.
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