Morning

In the brief, fleeting moments between sleep and waking, I felt you this morning.
It was the sweet cold breeze that rouses warm sleep.
A gentle kind of bitter that made me resent flat pillowcases,
and threads that should hold captive your hair.

The air lacks a scent that speaks of your presence,
and knows all of longings old tunes,
not a word of that language I could stomach,
I've become fluent in distance.

Turning towards dawn's shy approach,
I missed the valley you should make,
and the way the early morning light
should catch each eyelash like morning dew.

In twilight's declaration, goose bumped skin missed grazed fingers,
sleep stained eyes missed slumbered musings,
and diffused light could not find a single contour,
of waking and why I'd like to be.