Sunday, June 14, 2009

in the morning

The slow creep of the day
comes forward like a parent into a sleeping child's room,
desperately trying not to wake them for fear of ruining their dreams.
From where my head rests on your shoulder I watch the pulse in your neck
steadily ticking forth the minute where you are gone.
Your blood and the sunlight are relentless reminders that time will not stop, not even for us.

You stir in your sleep. We have slept too close for too long
and now my hair sticks to your neck as I raise my head to look at you:
one leg up, making a tent with the sheet,
a trace of sunburn pinking your tanned skin.
I move carefully, again resting my head on your chest and closing my eyes,
willing the sunlight to recede like an enemy defeated.
Your hand moves on my shoulder, precoursed by the muscles under my ear and around my back.
It's strange how it fits there, as if my skin and bones were always your home
and we had laid like this a million times before.
Your grasp tightens. Pulling me closer
even though the heat is almost unbearable.

It is then that I realize you aren't asleep either:
like me you've been sneaking secret looks down our lengths,
tingling at every place we touch.
At the same time we both decide to be brave and look when we know the other is watching,
no longer hiding in the dark corners of bars or spotty street lights.
In the full light of day we meet, unshrinking,
and face the morning together.

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