It gets most elevated when I get up in the morning, anticipating
an event that does not take place, a morning ritual I suffer through and think
of you, the night sweats that are not the right sweats, pumped up and exercised
into exhaustion. I wake after having dreams that can’t come true, the sweetness
I only dream I’ve tasted, the plunge into softness I only dream I felt, all of
it the most haunting in the morning because at night I can still dream of it as
real, and as stiff as morning makes it, I feel at a loss, a wasted moment
daylight steals and I commiserate over a cup of steaming
coffee and the drip
of butter from the sides of a buttered roll, the last gasp of satisfaction I
will not get until night sweeps me off my feet again and I plunge into your
abyss again.
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