Soft blankets reluctantly pool in a heap,

Still warm from your body,

As you rise up--

Stretching languidly.

Yawning softly you slip out of bed

And Ignore the whisper of the silk sheets that beg you

“Stay”

 

The timid rays of the sun skitter over the horizon,

Stopping just short of your window-

The one you never close.

They dare not challenge the night-

Even as her grip on the world grows tenuous,

And so for these brief moments you cast no shadow-

You’re not yet alive.

 

Upstairs the wood of the floor is cold,

Biting at your feet with a vigor too strong for such early hours.

The walls, not to be outdone, bleed blue

And mute all sound,

Standing stoic in their silence.

You should be fearful of their judgement,

But you smile in relief.

You can face their condemnations,

The insults of the other occupants however-

are harder to bear.

You’re thankful that the possessiveness of the dawn

keeps them asleep.

 

A blanket cascades from your shoulders,

Tumbling down your back,

And Jealously guarding the heat that clings to you-

The heat that the greedy air would otherwise steal.

You pad on rough feet,

Feet made to withstand the cold of such mornings,

And softly fill the house

With the tinny whistle of the kettle.

 

Soon your hands clasp a piping mug,

The smell of mint lazily wafting up on the slight curls of steam.

No sugar settles in the depths of your tea-

For nothing sweet survives this house.

You sip slowly at the bitter warmth-

The taste still sweeter than the words that will be hurled at you,

And time takes pity, letting the moment slowly amble along.

It’s not until there’s a stirring in the topmost rooms,

That time must banish the dawn,

The respite it brings,

and once again sentence you to life.