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First Morning

the lemony-silk sun slipping through the curtain wakes her,
playing on her closed eyelids in a spectrum.
She can hear him breathing,
with the slow, deep breaths of a dreamer.
the sheets rustle with each rise of his chest
She opens her eyes to watch him,
and reaches out a finger to trace the funny sleep wrinkles on his face
He wakes at her touch,
turns over to face her, and smiles,
a gentle smile which starts with his eyes and slowly travels down his face to his mouth
the only sound he makes is a whispered “hello,”
as though they are strangers at a bus stop
It is only the first morning;
the first of every morning,
from now till forever

June 2000