Slumber

You wear your face like a mask of expressions, carrying the weight of every word and tracing the curve of every motion.

There is a fire to your eyes that burns atop blackened coal, beautiful and earthly like a dancer left alone in the ruins of a world.

I am but a pauper before you; the feast of previously undiscovered tastes and smells that you bombard my senses with until I am full.

And yet, as I am fortunate enough to watch slumber fall upon your face like a veil.

Your face becomes a prairie wrapped up in the last warm fingers of summer with only the briefest hint of life as something twitches and moves.

Your eyes smile with condiment as the fire is dowsed to make way for the rivers of moonlit water that beat out that soft rhythm.

Your table is left with just the scraps of the day for me to sample in lazy little gestures as I too take off the mask of day and follow you into the night.