sleepy head

the promise of sleep sits there like a small impossibly dense of bundle of barb wire possibility which he rubs against in the thinking – the sensation is not pleasant and he balks at it.

the thin skein of patience by which he is tethered to his politeness is being sawed at by the held off future where sleep is already unpacked and transmuted from an angular torment to a flat plane of silken comfort.

coffee interjects as an aroma on a scrabbling sensory switchboard which is reaching for answers. he pushes it away. pancakes are coming and he knows that when he eats them some of his good mood will be restored and the sensitivity to everything he is now displaying will forget itself.

he touches smooth skin, runs his fingers through soft hair – and in the glissade of sensual poetry that is the body of his wife he eases away from his antagonistic perspective and opens like a blooming flower into the radiance of the idea of a new day.

One Response

  1. Good show. Good show. I thought he was going a lot closer to home there. If that was a twist, good job. If it wasn’t I’m sorry for revealing my guttural mind.

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