It is Sunday, past midnight,
and my world is still.
I smell you on my clothes
and in my hair while I sulk
at the thought of change,
of brand new fragrances
wafting through tomorrow’s air.
I do not wish for it,
only to be perpetually seventeen,
velvet skinned and yours,
a champion of chasing
headlights
and God
and tenderness.
It is Sunday, past midnight,
and I am forever.
Forever dreaming sweetly
Somewhere seventeen million
light years away
from you.
With you.