By the softlight of a Sunday sunray

I can still feel the impressions of your
soft, sweet flesh upon mine, even after
you’ve gone home, and lying there in the
very same bed that last night was the
scene of our lovemaking.
I feel satisfied.

The thoughts of you sleeping there,
unaware of my loving eyes, which descended
on you like eagles from a lofty eyrie;
the crumpled sheets, still slightly
damp from your skin.
I feel alone.