The morning


There are two mornings.

The morning outside my window is calmly cold while inside it is comfortably warm.

The window pane blurs my vision with condensed dew. The warm breathing of my blanket procrastinates the wake up call beyond the aimless cruelty of alarm clocks – it’s a Sunday. The morning is golden – God’s smile on the tall buildings. I shift from the numbness of eyelids – not heavy enough to fall into a supplemental dose of dreams or light enough to nibble the charm of luxury.

This is when you come and slip underneath my blanket – a silent moment that changes my morning. Eyes averted, you hide your face on my chest.

It is not time for you to cloth up – yet. Your nights are discreetly bare and that precious nakedness is now in my arms. What more does a voracious man want from a luring feminine form? From my better judgement, I chose to be a miser of emotions. I wouldn’t spend a word even if I wanted to. The morning or you – is no comparison at all. The chirping of birds distract me – the white cockatoos that come to my balcony but not for long.

Your lips are my prey, your valley is my country and I am that king without a crown. I rule with an impish smile to oppress fifty shades of your pink. I can’t brace the colours – not until I have fully awaken you and your pores start breathing on to me.

So it starts from your lips and with partly open eyes from that prolong kiss I see sunlight, kissing my city awake.

We are both lovers – me and the sun.


A prose poem for the lovely twitter prompts.



3 thoughts on “The morning

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