Rising Dawn and Fleeing Passions
I pick my way through clothes, scattered across the floor.
Yanked from our bodies in urgent, heated tugs, they lie jumbled, tumbled,
A confusion of his and hers and yours and mine and who’s sock is this, I can’t quite see?
Fumbling, stumbling, clutching, gathering armfuls as I go,
I shush myself, soften my step, shoo the cat, trying not to wake you.
My hand rests on the light switch, and I hesitate. To see, or not to see?
It’s not a question really. That glaring assassin would shatter the muted hues of morning,
Send scurrying those pastel players, into the shadows, out of sight.
My fingers fall away, the memory of you, tingling across their ridges and valleys.
Half dressed, half awake, I tip-toe my way through unfamiliar terrain.
Ouch! Who puts a table so close to a door? My foot squishes in a swampy carpet mess.
The spilled guts of Merlot, Malbec, Cabernet, Shiraz ooze through my toes.
I hop-skip to the kitchen, clutching a coffee canister as I go.
I’ll make coffee and breakfast and squeeze fresh oranges, and maybe a little more of you!
Hope adds a spring in my step as I dodge the culinary carnage that litters the floor.
I’ll clean that up, I surely will, anything for another hungry look from you.
Cheeks flushed, heart racing, jeans half on, thoughts of you sugar-plum through my head.
My reflection in the window snatches at my vision, seduces my attention. Prescience perhaps?
Thoughts of you flee from this glassy stranger, this me-not-me, at once familiar and unknown.
Mirror-me, ringed in the radiance of a rising sun, exudes a confidence I’ve never felt.
And the creeping fingers of doubt rake their sharpened talons across my soul.
Rooted in place, I witness my slow erasure with the tell tale tick of time.
The waking sun turns clear the glass, evaporates my image, and dissipates my hope.
I curse the breaking dawn, its lurid gaze turning pallid my vivid passions.
No backwards glance, no gushing note, I flip the lock, slide the door, and slip silently away.