We have not long to love. 
Light does not stay. 
The tender things are those 
we fold away. 

Coarse fabrics are the ones 
for common wear. 
In silence I have watched you 
comb your hair. 

Intimate the silence, 
dim and warm. 
I could, but did not, reach 
to touch your arm. 

I could, but do not, break 
that which is still. 
(Almost the faintest whisper 
would be shrill.) 

So moments pass as though 
they wished to stay. 
We have not long to love. 
A night. A day….