an orange-yellow ombre of radiance passes my rested body
from the open windows of my bedroom. and in that lawless
hour of reawakening, i am vaguely reminded of your mien.
i recapture the image of your hands pouring french press
coffee into my mug, and i disregard a subtle spill you leave on
the counter while doing so.
you don’t apologize but I love you for that.
i love you in the morning, and the forgiving afternoon,
and even when the light withdraws
and we become only outlines of ourselves.
your face, still warm with sleep,
leaves tenderness gathering in my stomach swirling like
honey on a wooden spoon—dissolving as it becomes one with my cup of coffee.
you drink yours too fast and wince at the heat.
i remain silent.
some knowledge is sweeter when kept.
i know how long the coffee must cool
before it stops burning you
and i take you in: the moles on your face,
the way your hair falls back into place after my hands leave
it.
somewhere between the french window and the wall, the
amber radiance finds us again; rested bodies, running
through tall grasses, bare feet brushing blades that bend
beneath us,
sun-dried rings of coffee on the wooden counter
and we are only this—
lingering long after the light has moved on.