Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Whoops, I Married A Capricorn

Five thirty,
at the mercy of approaching sunlight,
and the angry, unwelcome alarm,
I am happy,
held in heaven,
an anxious angel,
counting seconds,
sequences,
silences and small noises,
moving at the command of your rising and falling chest.
I dance to your breath,
subdued but lively,
resting and restless,
holding on,
with fevered fingertips,
to every second of waking up with you.

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Our mornings are righteous.
We are on the right side of the bed,
I join your tattoos,
touching each part of your arms that I can reach,
with closed, cautious eyes,
pretending a little longer,
that I am softly sleeping,
in high, holy, happy heaven.
You are sound asleep,
sometimes,
in every respect,
not seeing the magic you make,
or the way you have haunted me,
my whole life,
an out of reach illusion,
that my mornings were missing.

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Sometimes,
you are not a mortal,
but a sparkling soul,
sleeping all around me,
seeping inside my mind,
my nerves,
my veins,
and a million medical terms,
that I cannot name,
and I am changed.
I wake up,
renewed,
clean and pure,
tested but true,
waking up,
at last,
with you,
in high, holy, happy heaven.


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In The Garden Of The Free Children
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