genuine hour

the morning dawns before
we fully realise.
soft light spreading through
the once ink-black sky.
early sun rays
stream in through the window,
falling on our entagled limbs,
sleep-heavy eyes,
and mussed hair.
yet, we are loath to let go
of the magical hours,
where honest conversation
colours the air in shades of gold.
our speech is slurred,
words dragging their feet,
as though they too,
do not want this moment to pass.
blankets lie in disarray,
we have elapsed into silence
at the sight of the sun.
slowly, unwillingly,
we move to our own corners,
carrying the heady fragrance
of vulnerability in our skin.
there is a unique quality
to the words we speak
in the secrecy of the witch hour.
they are removed from reality,
suspended in an alternate universe
where there exist no barriers,
no societal conventions,
no awkward dances that bind our tongues.
the comforting weight of
being loved settles over my body,
and i let myself sleep.
knowing that i will
carefully press the memories
of tonight into a heavy tome,
a rare flower that i must preserve.