truth

Early morning slips across the skin into a mirror.
Captured there like dreams. Like crumpled white,
half off the bed; a map of shadows from the night
before and lashes pressed against the pillow, breaching
sleep. Light and glass reflect the room in sepia, violet
and rose. Three perfume bottles and a marble lamp.
Long diaphonous white that billows from an open
window. The air is cold but he is there, standing by
the door. His dark eyes, bare chest and open lips.
Watching. Waiting. Breathing. Sheets pulled hard
against gold hair. Time pulled apart as if to seize
the frame that floats his silhouette. It sinks into
the mind and heart so softly. Familiarity resides
inside a voice which equals his brown eyes. Full:
as if they've always known. And they are watching,
waiting, breathing time outside itself with vivid
colours. Shifting edges. Bare feet firmly planted
on the hardwood floor. With gratitude. I want
to say to him that he is home until it drains
away into the streamless distance of a day.
Another day.

This image stays with me.

A dream.