On my last night at the guesthouse, when you cry at my window to be let in, I won’t take you to the laundry room as usual, I’ll let you sleep with me.
You’ll curve your small, black spine against mine, then nudge me in the early hours with some mysterious request. I won’t mind the missed sleep; I’ll run my hand through your coat and wonder if it’s the last time.
In the morning, after I’ve made my coffee and toast, an hour away from the bus ride, I’ll tuck you into my blanket and memorise your green eyes.
Amora é linda.
Beautiful. And if only all our thoughts could be as beautiful as Amora’s. :)