Early Hours

 

When the sun has yet to drag itself over the frosted hills and I turn over

it is your scrunched face that lights the room:

concerned eyebrows and pouty mouth remind me of the boy I once chased

around and around the now frozen lawn,

threatening to kiss.

 

So I do, quietly and softly

under the thin sour light.

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About jake.forrest

Poet. Songwriter. Etc. View all posts by jake.forrest

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