I wake up early
on the mornings I’m in
love. Something warms
me, percolates my senses
until my life in dreams
isn’t doing what it could.
Awake, I lie in the sun slits
and wish those pale strands
were aching fingers
reaching across town, across
my face. This morning,
I’d let air wreck me,
hot and fresh against
my tongue. But these
mornings are bittersweet
because they leave me
taut to want what isn’t
here. Not this early morning.
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