poem twenty-six: morning

Still held by the pillow
my eyes are two curved lines,
open and shut.

I catch sight of the smooth
“V” of your back, you climb
halfway into the day, into your

jeans, my head still murky
with curtain-filtered sunlight
and remnants of Jungian dreams.

I’m slow to wake, sleep deep,
tugged up by the sound of you
ruffling through jumpers,

clacking hangers, and the sight
and shape of your bare skin,
your lips, your cheek.


I actually DID write this yesterday, but was so exhausted I couldn’t be bothered typing it up until today.

But yes, only FOUR MORE TO GO. Today, tomorrow, Monday, Tuesday … ahhh.


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