Morning

Peacock hair perfectly awry,
the cloud puff pillow groans
and shifts as I pull away. For
the evening, we loved tenderly,
in a visceral, passionate manner.
She sings to me in the
language of all languages, thought.

Rolling from the dented mattress,
I hear him give groan; he is the support of my restless nights spent
walking through hallways with no end travelling down winding staircases
that fill dreams and nightmares.
His aching ego: the soft twang of
each spring as he readjusts
himself to balance my absence.

rubbing captain sleep from the corners of my eyes, I have patience to note the
creases in fabric. The twins of pale blue
they tumble with me through the rabbit
hole of REM and they tumble separately
from me in the washer/dryer world that I stand beside and will not ever fully
understand.

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