Morning

The following is a poem I began toward the end of the Fall semester. As always, I drafted it in my notebook, and the proceeded to type it up on my computer. I thought it was finished, and let it sit for a number of weeks. I came back to it recently, and realized a number of mistakes, as well as a few areas of improvement. After making the necessary changes, I believe it is close to being finished.

MORNING

Condensation gathers on the window.
I lean toward you, half-dreaming,
and nuzzle the depth of your shoulders.
Your neck, long and slender,
glows white in the cool light of morning.
The skin of your thigh is calm.
Outside, the jingle of car keys carries
to our room on the third story,
engine groan sputtering in the February cold.
6 AM, not yet time to wake.
I close my eyes and imagine the day
to come - clatter of dishes, knife on fork,
to plate, and wash. Black leather boots
on hardwood floor, beating from table to table -
and all through the day I know I'll be
thinking of this - bed, light, calm -
longing to nestle in the warm blue of blankets,
musing of the day to come.