Mornings and me

There is me,

wide awake,

every single day,

before the alarm goes off.

“This is good,”

I tell me.

“My body-clock

is in check

with myself.”

So I lie waiting,

for the alarm call,

and whisper,

“Lead me to

the day.”


There is me,

swaddled in the


like my sister swaddles,

her new born.

but there is no

new light

like the child’s

or the mother’s

in my own

textured embrace.


There is me,

coiled in fetal,

with the

phone sitting

in the crevice,

where my head

touches my heart,

baking in the heat.

“How soon?”

I ask myself,

embracing the tapestry.

“How much

time is alright

before I check

this god-damn


hoping to find

messages from 

lost loves,

old friends


kindred souls?


at all,

who leaned in,

between their nights

and days

and minutes

and seconds,

and shared

with me




There is me,


by the night.

just as pale

as everyday.

Weary, Woke, Vilified.

The morning’s




all wide in the open

for me to see.

I shrug

and embrace

the day anyway.


the ritual.”

I say.




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