it’s six thirty nine in the morning.
i haven’t slept yet, and around the venetian blinds
the softest gray glow scolds me gently for my insomnia.
I imagine beyond them the sleepy sun is stretching,
gazing for a moment on the yawning green fields
and snoring houses.
the gentle timbre of your voice has not yet acquired the gravel of seduction,
nor has it grown thick with the hypnotic smoke of age and experience;
yet juxtaposed with the strains of a mutemath song in my headphones
and laughing quietly at your roommates’ antics it is comforting–
I am wrapped completely in drowsy contentment
as you lull me to sleep with silly phrases, soft chuckles and breath.
my mother could creep round the corner any minute and catch me awake,
or your roommates might stumble in and render our conversation mute
but as i lay here in the burgeoning morning,
drifting off to sleep cradled in your sounds and sighs,
the only feeling that registers in the cotton blanket sleepiness lowering my eyelids