edge of the hill

you never stop, a million London miles an hour through the halls. sometimes you sit for a drink but you’re still buzzing, I can smell it.

so when I found you lying down, I lost my voice for a moment. you were something completely new, all orange and spread out, patting the single bed saying I saved you a spot as easy as air, and I wanted you the way a low tide wants the shore. gently. lappingly. wet, and more over time, coming in until we are knee deep in it. and then go.