arc under linen

Sunday morning
and my eye
follows a curve under
striped linen, grey and white…
I feel the empty weight
of waking up, the small motions;
the rustle, barely heard
of hearts beating, lips,
our breathing and an
instant
of sadness, of longing for
the last dream
of living, loving, looking forward
and not back
…but…
she is there, the curve
the arc under linen, a
hip…an arm…
as sunlight filters though
intentionally
partially blocked
windows, the grayness
seeps away…from the room
from me
those curves, that hip
lips
all of her;
the dream can’t
compete.

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