Moments and memories lived, with her, he saved as still-frames in his mind. Inner-adornments, in decorate of soul, he greeted in welcome and often for pleasure and enjoyment of their seeing: white paint of her nails on feet, equally fine and fair; the coffee they shared, pyjamaed or less, in share of warmth in drink and dawn’s reveal; striking of her fairness in the wake and bright of spring—one blossom amongst world of same but, to him, most lovely of them all; her freckled burst in open light, shadow-dapple in the trees; close, but still open-broken, of her lips when reaching of her way.
Still-frame memories, seeing, they returned strong and immmanent again. No matter how they aged, now matter how they changed, he saw and loved her—still—these ways.
Moment by moment, day by day, becoming years and life; they added to their still-framed adornments in decorate of their lover’s souls.
He saw her then in the morning light, white-toe nails as in still-frame past; beautiful in the yellow, enchanting in light-fall’s cast and reaching into room; steam of her coffee to her breath upon, smile and large eyes under thin-haired brows, his lover’s spirit panged.
Loveseat in beam of widowed light where, from past. He knew they both could fit—if folded and close enough.
He desired her then and there.
Unspeaking, she knowing, she moved and he followed to.
Pygama’s fall to floor in pile, lithe sweep of her body’s fall bending, folding, into fit—invitation unto his. His bend and bow, match and fit, bodies hold in close and press; love and moment lived—vivid and strong—new memory adorn to inner of lover’s souls, made and saved, in after-still of loveseat’s frame.