sometimes you do it alone,
pushing, blindly or boldly, against the early morning,
piercing veils of grey silence on the brink of a day,
left to thoughts only practical, or weary;
or prescribed to pursue none at all.
and sometimes she joins you
on the back of a pre-dawn dark
with thoughts far less contained:
illusions, and phantoms; waking lies.
images cast like fire set to fuses
spark a dozen delirious suns:
the image of a face, faintly glowing;
of a smile; of her eyes, bathed and burning
in the sea of a cool white sky; a body,
stretched and arching, exposed
every sensual curve familiar as breath;
her, seated, knees drawn to chest,
a tender ball of need. and you, the lone protector;
or of wanting. and you, the only cure.
so, chasing down whispers of mem’ries yet made,
sometimes you pass waking hours asleep;
and sometimes you trail wings of fire.