Sleep with an Aries

You sleep soundly in the burgeoning daylight.
The sun streaming in, blinding.
The sound of the busy street below, deafening.
I fester beside you, like a too ripe piece of fruit left behind at the beach.
My head pounding, the sun and noise of morning keeping me awake, alert, aware, of my flaws in the daylight.
Of my imperfect flesh.
Of the distressing lack of darkness and quiet coolness.
Of hideability.
I long to be blindfolded, and when you stir, I whisper for your necktie.
But even with my eyes masked I know the day persists.
And all that is me and you together, asleep, awake, is there to be seen, by me, by you, and by the sun -- your fiery God.
"How do you do it," I ask. "How do you sleep in the Sun?"
So you speak of your travels and sleep caught by the tail.
I picture you dozing under a tree long ago, beside a road.
You, a not so distant cousin of Pan, naked an sprawled in the high grass, sleeping the greedy sleep of the libertine.
My kind reverts to caves, to shells and shadows.
But to you, a child of fire, the daylight is nothing more than a lulling glow when compared to the slashes of red/orange you cut with vigor into the old night's sky.
In reverence of this, I lie with you on a bed like a slab, and duck my throbbing head into the place where your chest meets the mattress.
Then, I kiss you softly and make my way to the living room couch.