the whole world is still asleep.
it’s not long gone noon
and her windows are—

(south-facing, she told me
when she moved in, when
I stood on the bedframe
and helped hang the curtains,
to better catch the sunlight)
—still cracked open

after our wine-drunk

gin-kissed fever

had us craving the taste of the summer evening.
 

if i hold my breath i can
hear the wind
accompanied by the softest motions,
the gentle rise

and

    fall of her chest

as she sighs her exhales like
clouds of smoke.
i’ve forgotten what it was like
to miss nicotine.

mornings were harder before i knew her:
a cacophony of clock sirens and
the quicksand sense that i’m
running out of time, the
shadow of a hangover
hanging over
my head
like a sword on a spider’s thread.

​

but there’s no such thing as
wasting the day
when i’m here with her
because the whole world is still asleep
and she’s rolling over in my arms.