Early Morning Hours

Early morning hours, say 3 a.m.
We'd stay up, sit up, drink up- with these
Fuzzy piano strokes spilling silly
From the speakers.
While some flickering candlelight splay the
White walls of your bedroom.

I remember.
When your hips. Angular and cutting.
And ever craving. Quickly
Melted my fingertips into wax. Melding
A splatter of skin and bone onto the
White sheets of your mattress.

Or when, we laughed about modesty.
Your tone so abrasive and wet.
Your sounds curled and caved
Me into one sleepless night after another.
How I admired and feared your tongue-
Which was a nightmare of honesty.
And confidence.

Or when, for a moment,
You were a black and white photo. In my room.
It's always a bedroom.
This dark hair that sliced straight through the hoops
You dangled from your ears-
Two moonlit rings of silver shining,
Over a shadowed smiling face.

You always wore a black dress,
Which made for a beautiful morning robe come
A long, deep drag of the daybreaking cigarette,
Before a slow, shallow sip of the daybreaking coffee.
The smoke and steam twisting through your apartment-
Between the hungover piano notes that still dripped
From the speakers.

And this
Sunlight that started to stream
Through the window pane
Was here to remind us that we were alive and only
Human after all.

Poetry by Shawn Monahan
Read 910 times
Written on 2008-12-11 at 05:51

Tags Love  Lust 

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