now that you're here, 

I'd like to thank you for brown eyes,

because there is no such thing as a warm atlantic.

I hear you when you tell me

that not even the stars are immortal,

but I'm not asking for all your sunday afternoons,

or monday mornings

or friday nights.

I don't need another weekday lover.

but now that you're here,

you with your godless days

and your labyrinth mind

and your stories of the south

I need heavy eyes and the air that makes your lungs sting.

I need kind eyes running across my shoulder blades as you take your seat, 

three chairs south of mine.

I need winter eyes

asking me to come in.

to stay a while.