the morning's water-coloured, pale milky and forgetful, leaking pink pools, blue bleeding through the mottled mass of dirty-glass filtered clouds. when you wake up i will find you on the other side of the bed, your body warm damp with heavy sleep, the world you don't yet want to leave. the salty sap of disappointment buried in the shame you build, cotton sticks on skin. your eyelashes are like tubes, or the wiry hairs of a horse's mane, or little brooms that sweep away the --
when your eyes are opened you will look bewildered and surprised, pull me to you, pink, sticky, blue, and you will be thinking, i know, "it is morning, and i am unalone."
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