Mornings like this will keep for the week

Sun filters golden dawn onto the walls, a novelty after midnight sun.

Your breath is the soundtrack to the color. Your head at its unnatural angle, your chest, rising, falling. I catch it on a fall and lay my head on it to rise.

I love the way hair tickles my nose. You clutch me in your sleep.

My hand across your stomach.

It's time to wake you. I choose a kiss on lips that are parting in protest of waking up.

You are beautiful in grumpy disorientation.


The air is moist from sleeping and the sky is yet to colour.

We should be at a station together to take a train to Hanoi, Guatemala City, or emerging from a stuffy night bus into the quiet of a goodtime night time town.

Instead you climb the roofs above our city and I take the sterile commuter train.

Your morning kiss lingers.