Aubade

At the whisper of sunrise, you awake
to gather last night's crinkled yellow dress
from where it lies, a puddle of dawn spilled

upon my floor. Threading ribbons of light
through your long hair, you pause only to fix
your smeared lips with the morning's borrowed dew.

As you depart, flowers latch like bangles
to your willowy wrists, shedding petals
in your wake; while I sleep, you slip away.

Wrapped tenderly in a silk handkerchief
at the bottom of your suitcase, my heart throbs.
I wake to find my words have vanished with you.


A/N: My muse is always gone by morning. June 19, 2010.