Before the ink-stained horizon
spits out the day, I quit the bed,
ghost-soft, leaving the dreamer untroubled,
to cross the cold tiles
that dream of Spain underfoot.
In the cupboard of hours,
where thin joys stack like paper,
I leaf through the silent offers of minutes.
The hour pre-dawn—
silk unraveled—
should you risk an embrace.
I bewitch the water,
coaxing it to kiss grounds black
as a scorched forest, a ritual
in the dark, somewhere between patience
and a prayer, while dawn is just a thief
at the eastern window, burgling the night.
Then back with a cup brewed dark,
to where we, the bed, and the quiet
keep the world at bay.
She stirs, her leg finds mine,
the quiet pulse matching the rhythm
of my sipping in the gray before morning.