Drifts of morning light, the exclamation point arms now folded and tangled among my own sharp bends. I wake up and fall to sleep a few times, the warm stillness convincing me back into dreams until I can’t make up plot twists any longer. I wake up and think a couple quick things:

I wish I had a camera.
I wish this morning lasted days.
I wish the blue in this room right now covered everything for good, and stayed, and stuck. The perfect color of a low triplet of violin, that part of such lowness that the sound trembles(like extracted nerve endings lined up on string, held up in the wind). It is this kind of blue.

I’m head over feet for this kind of light, this kind of minute where you are lucky enough to witness, in the instant itself: I will never forget this. Knowing I will float through the rest of my day with hands that smell like you and a mind on stilts out of reasonable reach. Minutes of not saying a word–you let the heart do all the quiet talking. Mine was pressed up against the wall, dragging mug along the ribs for a rhythm to speak it–a mumbling sort of thing, language not for ears(language not meant to be ever completely learned).