Of morning light on your hands, two paper lanterns on the mahogany nightstand and last night’s shadows rescinding into the room’s crevices.
Of our befores, and how years spiraled into years. Of seconds now, of seconds (and the silent gap between seconds), of seconds resonating from now’s clock.
Of our breaths and how separate rhythms find one rhythm before parting: two then one; one, one, the proud-alone-one; two as human-and-needed-one.
Of the addled and at-peace mind. Of what’s recovered therein—extinguished wicks, ready-wax and paper’s want to illume that which will inevitably claim us.
Of dawn pulsing the curtains vibrant. Green traces of gold,
you open your eyes to me.
Copyright © Dain Fedora