Poetry

I wasn't listening to a word he was saying. His lower eyelashes seemed to extend halfway down his cheeks, tickling the rosy softness there, as his upper lashes fluttered towards me, feathery frames around green-grey eyes looking up at me from my shoulder. Some sleepy, rumbling sounds from pink lips... long, black, soft lashes, and bright green-grey eyes.

The morning was bright, warm and new. In that small room, wrapped in soft sheets and strong arms, speaking good mornings in quiet tones, the world was ours.