Lazy fingers trace each others silhouettes,
Amongst a patchwork of blankets, pillows and discarded clothes, we lie,
Flavoured with sweet smelling smoke, and even sweeter honey wine,
Our protest against the real world continues, as it has for days,
Within the silence we express the contentment of our shared emotions,
With no real need for words, we say everything that we need to,
Phones go unanswered, mail gets ignored.
Wind chimes muted behind closed curtains provide the soundtrack to our blissful, quiet anarchy,
Revelling in the sweetness of our defiance against “what we should be doing”,
Never wanting to leave and do anything else.