In the humble
drifting
moments
between dreams and morn
syllables slip
from your wine lips
thick and sweet
like honey from a butter knife.
I reach beneath the covers
my lips taste silk flesh
in the moments
before the curtain’s drawn
before the Robin’s morning call
before a world wakes
beneath slate skies
and winter winds that bite
hard at the heart and hope.
These moments
between the death of night
and birth of day
are no time for speech
just gutteral sounds
and touch and belief
we can hold off the dawn.
drifting
moments
between dreams and morn
syllables slip
from your wine lips
thick and sweet
like honey from a butter knife.
I reach beneath the covers
my lips taste silk flesh
in the moments
before the curtain’s drawn
before the Robin’s morning call
before a world wakes
beneath slate skies
and winter winds that bite
hard at the heart and hope.
These moments
between the death of night
and birth of day
are no time for speech
just gutteral sounds
and touch and belief
we can hold off the dawn.
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