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I generally don't write romantic poetry. It's simply not my style. I generally tend to write narrative poetry about the Fey Folk and suchlike. However, I'm quite proud of this poem I've written and would really like honest opinions and concrit.

It was six in the morning and all was silent.
Night had just ended and summer was gone.
It was six in the morning and she had not woken.
I did not feel it was time to move on.

It was half after six and the morning still glistened.
My arm was still numb from her body's great weight.
I knew if I moved that she'd wake, so I didn't.
But love came too little, and came far too late.

It was ten after seven and light bored right through me.
The sheets were still twisted around as we lay.
She knew she would leave as soon as she wakened.
I knew there was time for doubt and delay.

It was eight in the morning and she began stirring.
I was still silent, and still as the dead.
It was eight in the morning when her eyes first opened.
I pressed a small kiss on the top of her head.

It was eight and a quarter, and she took a shower.
Her steps were a mix of delay and of haste.
I lay there and listened, intent, to the water.
I hoped there was still some time to waste.

It's nine in the morning; she's out of the shower.
Her eyes beg the choice for her body to stay.
I glance out the window, and smile in answer.
I've thought of a way to continue the day.

Once again: Concrit, please! I love criticism!

i believ the imagery sounds very good 3nodding and i quite enjoy the romantic part i could see myself doing something like that to my bf blaugh

I must say, very very nice. The imagry is quiet vivid and I like that.