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Before dawn
I wake beside you
with a blink.
Eyes open,
brewing
rich aromatic thoughts.
The house sleeps
while I dress.
I recall quiet conversations
in coffeehouses,
circumspect walks
across domestic tile floors
to taste your cheek, and
the reluctant drag
at the end of parting hands.
I picture hands and eyes and lips
and unlock the front door to
step into twilit morning
for the hour’s peace.
I sense your forehead against my cheek.
I turn to you--
invisible beside me on the porch--
and kiss the space
between your brows.
The bolt slides quietly
door to frame.
Eucalyptuses shimmer and shift
through a bank of whitening fog.
My forehead tingles.
Did I wake you?
copyright 2006
Stephany
Prodromides |
