The Plato Pledge

They had agreed, in fact it was a pledge. To honour all commandments, also those they still were unaware of. Near the edge was, on her left, (he rested in a pose) of the French mime, his name...was it Marcel? He'd freeze into time's endless absolutes; a casual observer then could never tell if there could be a human, sleeping near those boots. They'd known, deep down, that fragrance might be bliss, and vowed that, simply, nearness would suffice. Allowed was one low decibel and fleeting kiss, they drifted off, he dreaming of crushed ice, she travelled back to distant, stormy, drooling days, but a confounder also occupied their resting place, in sly and hidden ways, it was a Queen where, truly, King was specified and even breathing took up valuable space. It was a valiant effort, that much must be said. At half past three she scratched her flushed and sleeping face. A touch of elbow to his still and dreaming head and there was silence as they breathed each other's skin. She was the first to place her hand upon his chest. There was the thought but now dismissed about a sin. He ventured home and laid his head upon her breast, the world had stopped right then and did suspend the time. Though they kept sleeping against reason and all rhyme.