Morning isn’t good to me, no matter how much I try. On paper, he’s such an idyllic partner. All the best magazines say that if I treat him right, he’ll treat me right. All the best people tell me stories about how he made their dreams come true.
But I’ve never seen his bright side.
I wake up before I need to, and spend a few vulnerable moments in his care. He overloads me, calling the light to my eyes, urging the birds to tell their loudest stories, telling the city that I am awake and it is okay to move the heaviest things there ever was.
Morning isn’t good to me. He hurts me, even when I try. I spend so much energy just working with him, balancing his power, that I have no time left for myself. My senses strain, my muscles ache, the world under my feet is softer and I sink so far.
I can do better…
so I do.
I let midnight kiss my worries away. He darkens the room so I can see. He is not loyal, of course– he kisses everyone who looks him in the eye.
But when I am looking, he is mine, and we are as infinite as the sky that warms us.
When I am looking, I am his, and we are as infinite as the stars that light us.
I work through the night, both eyes open, accomplishing everything.
I can’t blink… because when I do… he leaves.
And worst of all,
he leaves me with the morning.
I’m going to add this to my very long list of posts that are all about how I don’t like the morning.
My favorite of which is still this wonky poem….
Do you ever find yourself talking or writing about something often, even if it’s really not that big of a deal to you? I swear I’m not a morning grouch, just a bit less shiny. Are you a morning bird?