Who says derivative things can't also be beautiful?
:::
Morning leaks through
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:::
Morning leaks through
the gaps in the curtain,
enfolding you tenderly
where you lay.
Light comes to play
on the white of the wall.
You're beautiful,
sleeping there.
Morning is moving
inside me too.
I'd been living alone
with my face turned away,
and I couldn't see a thing,
and I couldn't hear a thing.
And now that seems
such a long time ago.
"You're awake?"
I hear you say sleepily.
Your eyes are just barely open
and you're smiling.
I don't answer.
I just take a deep breath.
It's warm here,
and outside the window
it's winter.
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