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 of 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 it seems
so long ago now.
"You're awake?"
you say sleepily.
Your eyes are open a crack
and you're smiling.
I don't answer,
I just take a deep breath.
It's warm here,
and winter
is outside our window.
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