I love when you look at me in the morning
As the sunlight penetrates the curtain slits
And casts serrated streaks across my skin.
In that moment I am not an ice queen,
I am not worrying about work, or hiding behind a façade of astrology.
I am the woman with messy hair and bad breath,
Oversized pajamas, and a compulsion to checking the time.
I am the woman grasping for your arm to drape over my boney shoulder,
Looking for the crevice in your curled body where I can angle mine
And become cocooned with you in threads of silk and cotton.
I am the woman in that moment remembering every past love lost
And praying to some false sense of God that you are finally the last
Sweater I will have to try on.
PS- I love that green sweater,
The one that is a little too small for your arms,
But smells comfortable.
The way Whitman must have felt
The second he planted his head on the grass.