I imagine our lives and a story unfolds- it is my imagination which is writing. Time brushes you and I watch as you gracefully age. The constellation of freckles; the cosmic kisses still cluttered upon your elbow- we have not yet had our great war. We arise as one in the morning; twin clouds softly broken by the approaching light of day but it is you who gathers herself first, who rises wrapped within a sheet- have I not always been the slumbering echo of the night? Or was it you who was lazy in the morning? But as you slowly walk away, I brush away the twilight to gaze upon you slender thighs. The water is drawn and the waterfall begins. I rise and approach the kitchen. The sound of the water as it runs its transparent hands through your hair I imagine to be my hands as I sit, sipping coffee. The door opens, breaks the air, water drops atop the floor as you pass. I inhale and my neck falls in your direction. Lavender kisses my senses and for a moment I close my eyes, I open, I follow you as you tip-toe into the bedroom, bemused as you stand in the light of a drawn curtain by the way your figure falls in the shape of a vase upon the floor.