Good morning God.
The war is over,
my eyes are bleary,
blinded by the sun,
sinking into his soft skin.
The sun is in my soul,
cursed by his charms.
I am rich and warm,
smiling,
wild and wicked,
as I seek him,
beneath the sheets.
This feels foreign, God,
and I feel foreign,
often,
but this,
THIS,
is so different.
You sent him to me,
not with wings,
or blinding light,
but just as he was,
just as I wanted.
The conflict has concluded.
In my body,
there are knots,
I am confused,
and caged,
finally free.
I think I might be happy.
I fell asleep last night,
my pillows became clouds,
and I met him in my dreams,
God,
there he was,
in my dreams.
All night,
I found new ways to be sane,
cursed to be less chaotic,
finally cursed with something I can use,
soothed by him,
and the way he sends the sun to my soul,
when he is the first thing I see,
in the morning.
