Mornings thin like paper the sun shines through,
too short and fragile and bright and young.
We wake up smiling, instinctually,
and feel skin against skin and warmth and birdsong,
and the sunlight makes motes against your face
through the blinds, and I trace with my eye the
strong features around your jawline.
You’re a stoic in the morning, before your eyes open,
carved from clay and light and flesh and fire,
and when your eyes open they burn holes through me.
Today I’m caught up in the sunshine, in this premature summer that’s graced our door, and the warmth of the colors of the grass and water and sky, and I’m caught up in watching great big puffballs of clouds patiently edge their way across the horizons. For them, life is nothing but the journey, and they may dissolve into light and air at any moment. We’re but ash and bone. Their beauty is intrinsically tied to their brevity. This doesn’t make it convulsive.
When I dance I think of you, and how limbs can tie together so thoroughly that they’ll never be untangled, like smiles, and how my hand feels on your back when the music goes slow and the world fades away to faces and voices, and we all just float. Sometimes I’m surprised by how solid things are, when the lights come back on and reality has its way again.
And sometimes I’m surprised by how much dreams persist.