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First—limbs spooled around
The comforter, aquamarine,
Which, even now, retains the smell
Of late nights: my hair gel, candles fizzling out,
A plethora of escape plans.
Morning annunciated in fuchsia,
The quiet, brutal light,
A conflagration, plummets
Ruler-straight through slats in the blinds.
Last night kaleidoscopes at the edge
Of my vision, collides with daylight,
The color of the sky with the sun just visible
A swirling paisley—remembered noise,
Forgotten epiphanies, and, now,
The quick, crimson birth of today.
From the floor, you seize
A handful of sunrise, tugging
At the follicles of the carpet.
Your hand, a conduit, connecting
Now with the strained visage of night,
As your eyes effloresce, catch the sun.