Sunday, November 25, 2012

Morning Sigh

Morning comes around
like cursive
where it touches the line.
My feet touch the ground.
It's cold.
The sun will rise.
I go upstairs softly. 
My face still pink
as the morning sky.
My brain still in a haze
like letters poorly erased
by the gummy night.
I pour myself some coffee,
hot coffee that has cooled,
to sip and sigh. 

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