I think it’s time to take a look
at the clock that’s on the stove.
it’s dark, but the numbers are all lit up -
the lightbulb to our treasure trove.
the wind is me, and you’re the cold;
the beach is all the steps we’ve left.
your tousled hair, that fills the fold
between my right arm, and your left.
we’re not quite talking, you and I:
but silence is a kind of noise.
the one that never tells a lie,
and doesn’t care about its poise.
the stars are out and we’re still up,
but no-one said that night’s for sleep.
the stove-clock says: two hours passed.
I’ll wait a thousand more, if asked,
my sweetheart, if it helps you sleep.