It is when, the early moments, eyes still heavy with dreams,
focus upon the physical, wood frame reaching walls,
the mind in slow motion begins a greeting,
a notice, a painting, ties, the dresser is a haven,
in morning wonder he does ask forgiveness in absent mind.
Roll onto his back and sense another,
yet the isolation is familiar, a partner in animosity,
tender in notion, until reality again suggests a fatal flaw,
not dangerous, only a sadness that has long ago manifested
the linens that prevail to simply cover sleeping bodies,
morning wonder now has eyes on spattered ceiling.
A fan rolls smooth, winds with purpose, reminds fantasy,
if we focus on only the shadows of rotation,
if only for a moment,
imagine siesta in a warm climate,
the fan offering reprieve from scorching heat,
yet this one is cosmetic in northern wood.
Stretch his body, know that soon a waking reminder,
the day ahead, the tasks so yearned,
lay back on his side, tucking an arm underneath,
look out to the wall and imagine
her eyes, waking to find his own.
Oh, if that moment could be right now.