there is nothing to capture
the strains of the hours
when you are lying on a carpet of thoughts

the languid gravity
laps at the ears
as a cold warmth rises
feeling of soft hands
vignettes
lines
commas and pauses
all things unsaid
and others not unforgotten
breathe out
their purpose and
the whispered air goes through
the veil of skin and fur
and draw in your life
and you
breathe
some more
time
because
you are lying in the hours