A.M.

Somewhere between the large hours of the night and the small ones of the morning,

my mind sinks beneath the low-light whispers of the stuttering street lamps

as they march along outside my open blinds.

Groggy and sleep-addled, each gust of wind through the trees is you whispering in my ear,

every waft of air pushed at me by my silently churning fan is the brush of lips against my cheek,

the flutter of your eyelashes along my jawline.

These sheets are empty and uncomfortable,

keeping me from dreaming more deeply of you.