Staring at the Lighthouse at Noon

It's been two years, two months and two days since we cooled the rock with our backs.
Jagged on the edges but smooth beneath us for long.
Not a word to disturb our peace,
Nor a movement to move us from tarrying the shadows from moving.
Backs pressed to the cold rock, cold beneath us.

It's been two hundred and twenty two letters since we looked at the open windows
casting umbra-ed shapes on alabaster walls
Not a ray screaming out of place
Nor a shimmer to startle us awake from the yarns we spun
Eyelids pressed together, moist beneath us.