I am not an early riser,
but this morning is different;
the air tastes of transcendence.
There are patterns to the clouds.
For once, I see things in them.
I lie in silence next to you.
I am the object of my own gaze
until you open your eyes
and then hug me so tightly,
I have forgotten everything.
All that exists is this state �
the bed, the sheets, your arms,
and the breath of you.
These days I am confused
of where my beliefs lie.
They are in the wind, and
I can never catch them.
I am distant, away again.
But then the hairs on
the back of my neck
bristle from your kisses,
and this morning is different;
the air tastes of imminence.
There are patterns to the clouds.
Weightless, I see myself in them.
And I remind myself that,
although every minute is brief �
imparting its claim to life,
then subsiding into history,
I can�t help but smile inwardly
as the shadows on the wall
stretch, and I hear the rasp
of fingers on my skin.
And I hope that I can love you
more than any girl before me has.
The morning wears on,
my work is waiting for me.
If what they tell me is true, then
perhaps tomorrow�s wages will
pay back our present toils.
But I know I get paid much finer
for laying here all day with you.
So though we both have duties to pursue,
maybe this morning will be different;
the air tastes of limitlessness.
There are patterns to the clouds.
Close my eyes - they�re safe in my heart.