My Love is a Late Afternoon

My love is a late afternoon.

It is the nostalgic glow of a waning hour.

It is the sense of surety following the middle of the day, that the cold of the early morning is a distant memory.

It is the familiar winding down of work and the lowering of a burden.

It is the excitement of an evening to come, brimming with potential.

It is the perfect opportunity to hold one another, and the freedom for that moment to develop, howsoever it may.

It is the full satisfaction following a hearty meal, and sometimes the pleasant excitement of a snack or tipple.

It is the settling of the flora, no longer affected by morning dew, and steadfast in its dedication to the path of the sun.

It is – all at once, and each in turn – azure, cerulean, white, gold, copper, and crimson.

It seems, in the dead of night, an impossibility that it will ever return quite so fantastic, quite so bright, as it was the last afternoon. And yet,

It is certain, it is inevitable, it is destined, whilst it paradoxically remains changing, malleable, afresh.

It is the autumn of the day, when time hangs on a thought.

It is too early to call it quits, and late enough to remark on the longevity of the experience.

It is the faint halo my lover wears on her crown, as the warm setting of our star outlines her perfection.

It is the last chirrup of a field-mouse, the final purr of a wood pigeon, as the cacophony of the day reaches calando on its journey into the darkness’ hum.

My love is a late afternoon.