My eyelids are conflicted,

Of course they hope to reunite for some odd hours,

But they cannot until they finish writing this story, ours.

Months have passed since someone kept me awake more than espresso.

I admit, I tire as I type . . .

But I must push forward, for there is much to write.

I’ve yet to divulge the way my cheeks disappear in your hands,

Or how it might feel to relive that night in the Strand.

How could I forget your cologne haunting my clothes?

Or the occasional trampling of toes

As we waltz into darkness.

It seems I must now end this struggle, this perpetual fight

By waltzing with you all through the night.