, crashed out, intent on sleeping through the rest of the weekend. That way it couldn’t get any worse, right? Wrong. It can always get worse. I was rudely awakened early on Saturday when Steve came round to use my washing machine. He has my spare keys so he let himself in, but if you knew Steve you’d know that if you want to sleep while he’s in the building, you’ve got no hope unless he’s comatose first. ‘Morning Mate! Coffee?’ he shouted as he walked past the bedroom door, casually slapping it first, to be assured of my full attention. Any response I might ordinarily have made would have been truncated to one syllable as Steve found the power button on the hi-fi. No one should have to listen to U2 first thing in the morning. It says so in the Geneva Convention – doesn’t it? Well, if it doesn’t, I can make a bloody good case for getting it added. Not that it’d make a blind bit of difference – Steve hasn’t heard of the Geneva Convention, let alone read it. I was lying on my bed of. Stars dotted the clear sky that night, tiny silver ornaments strewn along the heavens. They filled your eyes and in that moment, a clear reflection of the boundless universe. The glow of such a sky in you was amaranthine beauty, ceaseless in its possibility and wonder. It was the second time I can remember truly being stilled by something in this world. The first was months ago....I breathe you in. A perfume of your body, floral fields and coconut shampoo. Your eyes are starlight to me. I've also seen fireworks burst behind them, reflections of an exploding sky above as we shared our first kiss in thick summer heat. Warm lips upon mine, curiously searching. Such a quick kiss, almost tentative, but a fever spread instantly the uncertainty of the uncertainty of the new overtaken by an awakened need. Your skin is the moon. I've seen it from a distance, almost unreachable, a plain of fair smoothness. I've seen it up close. Have touched you for the first time on a twilight beach. Waves.
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