Indecency

You lay in the bed, sun filtering through the curtains,
your hand on her hip as she sleeps.

There is something indecent in finding such love
so late in life, with so little time left.

but then, it would be less decent still, to not have her, here and now
and for whatever is left of forever.

About this poem. 

A love poem. Duh.

I am blessed.

Tom