Back To Mine by Karl Powell

Back to mine, then. Too much tequila for one night, too many queues for Llama, too late to start again, too early to waste the weekend, the stars looked too good to ignore playing footsie outside the Dome. It's easy to flag a cab if you know how, and with you it's always easy. Nothing else to do but back to mine, then - to chat, to chill, to chase away the tequila worms and laugh in candlelight and empty rooms.

I just love how I feel lying this close to you. Just laying here, lights out staring at ceilings and everything warm. The way it should be. Arms and legs tired and barefeet happy to be. No longer talking now, just heads touching and eyes elsewhere. On the walls, on the city streets, on the shooting stars that blaze out our names, on the future, on the past, on our palms, on our hands that hold tight the dreams of this night and all the others.

Wherever we lay - your sofa, my bed - everything feels like hammocks should sway, in the warm breeze, watching the stars fall to the whispers of the ocean's call, you and me, it should be, but it can't be, it never will be, well, not yet, maybe. But there is no moment like this one. Right now. There never can and never will be. Just this perfect feeling. You are mine, and I am yours. We share this together.

Candles burn long and we sink deep into vast white pillows, early morning light stretches far and wide, touching the sands of those Indian Ocean daydreams, reading our minds, filling up our time, draining these glasses of all that white wine, your bottle next to mine. I love you I love You I love you. I love this perfect moment and everything it means. Drunk and giddy, ten years younger but I prefer you this much older. Aqua Marina.