Slow burning of grey skies.

I wait for the early cold and the gentle grey light just before the sun rises because it’s everything I saw for a while, grey grey grey, grey skies, grey clouds and the rain and it never hurt. Until today someone mentioned soft and I’m thinking of you. Today, you are everything. Today, the clouds swelled with rosewater and and it pulled my heart into pieces. I’ve been a tired wreck with all the remembering. All the soft , all the gentle , all the golden. You wore the early sun well, your hair a mess, but it was morning coffee and it was wet earth and in summer they turned the world autumn. You’re stirring in your sleep like cream on coffee. Your soft soft eyes, like sunlight through honey and the love they made. Your lazy morning smile, tender olives that roll in my mouth before they give away to their taste of soft butter. I’m peeling tangerine  and I’m thinking of our fingertips in the sunlight , the citrus, the sour and our almost touching lips. On a Sunday morning I felt the words rising in my throat like bile only I was stupid enough to look at you and I swear that I forgot what day it was because you were so fucking beautiful standing in the light falling from the open windows like an art that God himself couldn’t have forced the sentiment from my mouth. I’m taking a walk while the sun yawns and the trees are swaying and I’m remembering the timbres of your voice because they were wood and ash and cinnamon curling against the confines of a milk curdled sky. I’m remembering you quietly, one sticky summer after noon and the soft of your hands on the back of my neck, your thumbs on my lips and the tenderness of the moment that took time’s breath away that it stood still for a while. Your bent knees and your mouth finding my melting palms. I’m remembering the rising and moving of your chest like the sky just before sunset when the entire sky looks like God has been running his hands through it. And when the sun goes down and the last rays of sunlight hits your sleeping face, the violet and the blue of your eyelids, the golden of your baby moth eyelashes could’ve been a candle God himself lit to burn my greys into golden. Today, I’m thinking of you and I’m breathing warm tender like a baby bird and everything is soft and gentle as a sigh.

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