Sinking my teeth into a whiskey scented coffee, fog lifting from my open mouth and boots propped up against the wood grain. Don’t we believe in miracles, this time of year with the flurries of hope and despair, both competing for a place in our darling hearts. Bed folds reveal sleep patterns of a teeth grinder, toss and turner, lover lover. Running your fingers down my spine I’m remembering why I lit those candles at that church: somewhere someone’s listening. The pine fragrance perfume of masculine energy sweats next me, spilling secrets of steel mills and mountain passes. Oh you are a nature paradise, a roving rover, highland handsome, kissing me with bristle scruff. Wait for me at the crag moors of a wuthering romance, I hope to keep myself from flying off the cliffs, crashing beneath in bloody sea-foam, body dashed. I heard a fairy tale of you once upon a time, where we grew old eating lamb chops and drinking hard cider, tending the sheep and riding bay mares across the beach. Is there such a happy ending? Emerald silk falling from my shoulders, claddagh ring to promise my bonny boy a faithful night of passion, before you pick up your musket and go sailing against the tragic tossing tides. I’ll wait for you I said, on that green hilltop. Today my boots pick up the dirt and grime while I pedal myself through the grind. Swathed in black peacoats and making love to monetary mileage, you are still out to sea and I’m still here waiting for you to come home to me, that hilltop now a sky scraper.