by James Johnson

            Mourning Morning

Before I rise-my thoughts turn to us, as sleepily the cobwebs leave, I see you lying next to me-your rich textured hair curled around my palm as one arm lays gently next to the nap of your neck, the other placed in the contour of your back-holding vigil lest you turn and face me in early light of the new day. Comforted by the sound of steady breathing seasoned with the taste of your breath on mine. My eyes beg to open again certain that the first sight I see will be only a reassuring view of your smiling eyes staring down on me. Hints of lavender and spice send me seeking the touch of my angel---haltingly with the abruptness of a 747 touching down I see my day filled with anxious anticipation only alone will I know the sorrow that seeks to replace dreams with reality. The pillow falls to the floor leaving my palm upturned and empty; sheets torn in a tormented grasp of desperation are the strings that threaten to curl about my hand. The hum of the conditioner blends with the sound of my beating chest, as I fear mourning, another morning without you. The fear I face is cursing through my veins as I now accept a starkness of a life lived in dreams of the night and days woven together with only memories of you.

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