When Morning comes, she kisses me,
lips pressed with promises.
She seduces me in to her light,
a tempting mistress of the day.
Bringing me to the windowsill, she has me
sit, back to my lover who's dozing in silk bedsheets.
Fingernails, long and bleached white, pluck the
world to life; as if it were strings on a violin.
I watch her as she swirls dew drops in to the grass, as she
beckons birds to tweet. As she turns constellations to
cumulonimbus. She takes the echoes of the night and
winds them in to west-stretched shadows.
She leads me in to the serenity of the shower;
then back out again. The cold stings my skin.
She pulls my clothes on in a feverish hurry, and wraps
a scarf around my flushed neck.
I'm pulling the door handle of my car before
she reminds me that her jealous sister dumped
the keys somewhere in the kitchen. Before
Night tangled her tongue around mine and led me to bed.
Morning plays with sunbeams as I sit in rush-hour traffic.
She caresses my cheek as I long for the moments spent with
her sister. Then she reminds me that Night is the
reason I've walked back to the car three times to check the lock.
On the train, she whispers goodbye in flashes of light between
trees as I travel eastbound. She swears she'll be back tomorrow,
as I fumble for my ticket as the conductor approaches.
I'm starting to run out of reasons to believe her.
