To my right, a setting sun, sinking behind the rooftops.
To my left, a sleeping boy, face painted by her colors.

I could wake him and put on a record— The Sensational
60s! Jesus Christ Superstar! Ultimate Sinatra! Bonnie
Tyler’s It’s a Heartache! Vivaldi: The Four Seasons—

yet I do not. In the spaces of our shared silences breathes
something sacred, something reminiscent of the Garden.
He is bathed in orange, cast in gold, shadowed by clouds,
yet wholly unaware of how desperately I wish I could
stop daylight from vanishing, how tragic this brevity.

These are moments words cannot hold a candle to.
And music, though I live for melody filling the air,
would only stain and ruin the perfection of now.

I do not wake him. I let the vinyls rest.

And I, too, rest, letting the Artist do the work.

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