Frosting

The rising sun's a waking baby
Startled fresh.
I didn't slant the blinds.
The room is slathered butterscotch.

I see her fired face,
Her hair a darkened statement on the pillow,
But asleep, awake,
I am unsure if she's a hopeful dream
Or melancholic echo
Yesterday, tomorrow.

Shut the shades
And brew the coffee.
Either way,
She's phantom flesh,
Desire disconnected,
Running lost and wild,
Forfeited home.

What did you expect to find
Beside you
In the morning?

- 4/15/26

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