Morning

It happens that sometimes the distance inside needs the tender sorrow of words to bind silence into long unbroken stems that can be cracked and whipped and ultimately burnt. Cinder, in a tinderbox of unexplained inexplicableness.
The spirit of destruction must find it sacrifice before it sighs contently and hibernates awaiting the next time nostrils flutter with the scent of a little blood.
Maybe drama is just a mere tool for those of us with lesser inspirations and greater desires to play central characters in irrelevant comedies and life’s little histories unfold and unfurl. Wrapping you in the gentle warmth of happy days sleeping as the morning unwraps itself with closed curtains. The fan the rhythmic unsilence of our sleep
It happens sometimes that mornings come with telegrams of starts and stops awaiting awaiting the next time that we may question the glory of the morning to reach out past the closed curtains in beams of light that only penetrate our sleeping eyes but not the cool underneath of sleeping sheets wrapped around our as yet unwoken warm sleeping bodies.
Sometimes there are days with anticipation we walk out of our separate sleeps with anticipation nudging us or holding our collars to slow down, and sometimes it’s hard to tell which which is which.
So we wait.