For a moment I thought I heard
the clock beside my bed stop ticking--
tick, tock...pause---as if it wanted to make sure
I was still listening.
It’s 6:13 and I’m writing this poem
on a cell phone in my bed,
because the sound of your breathing and the
curve of your body won't let me leave.
If I could, I’d absorb every ounce of you, your body fading into mine
until we were one and not two
lying in this king-size bed on a Saturday morning.
I need your warmth the way consonants need vowels—without you, my words make no sense.
Even the quietest bird needs a song to
sing to the world in the early morning light.
I wonder what dreams fill your head, if they’re about me.
Can you feel the weight of the blanket on you when you’re half-asleep?
Do you know how your name escapes my mouth with sugar and softness? Can you hear me?
With no response, I’m left to contemplate the world in solitude once again.
What I know is that there’s no other way I’d rather spend my morning than imagining
the dreams floating through your head.
What I know is that the depth of love in this room has turned into an ocean, and for once,
I’m floating and not sinking.
What I know is that I’ll carry this morning around in my pocket, along with so many others,
waiting for a call from God that this is it—you have what you’ve always wanted.
What I know is this:
Here we are, listening to the symphony around us—your breathing, the dog’s snoring,
the clock’s arrhythmic ticking, and my open eyes
looking around for a sign that this life is anything short of perfection.
Looking for more poems? Check out my Portfolio or click the "Poetry" category on the right side of this page.
Happy Saturday, lovelies.
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Writer, editor, and storyteller living in the Twin Cities.