Each strand a down payment on beauty,
your hair draped like golden fabric,
breasts hidden by threads of sunlight,
and your face, a theater of thought.
I lie beside you, the room hushed,
as if the world agreed to quiet,
to let your musings travel freely,
and I watch, speculating the script.
What mosaic spins in your mind,
its loom working unseen, mysterious?
Is it dreams of far-off places, or
a tender replay of yesterday?
The curve of your arm, a gentle line,
draws me closer to the epicenter,
where thoughts and breaths intertwine,
a choreography of silent dreams.