Sunday Morning Coffee

I wanted to title this Dream Weaver, but that’s taken….

I didn't know my heart was broken                                                                                      until I heard your “just got out of bed” voice 

Blankets holding your dreams still                                                                                 strands of my hair stubbornly wrapped                                                                          around your thighs and fingers 

Fibers interchangeable                                                                                                           our souls woven tightly                                                                                                 threading our lives to the rhythm of the harp
Color, history, mystery sharing the space                                                                        where our breath joins in the night                                                                                       and our thoughts effervesce and coalesce                                                                          giving meaning to daytime spent apart

I didn't know my heart was broken                                                                                     until I realize                                                                                                                                I hear your voice only in my head                                                                                     reality now just fragments of a dream                                                                                       I strap myself within my pillows                                                                                              as if they are a time machine                                                                                            taking me home                          

I didn’t know my heart was broken                                                                                     until the sun’s rays succeeded-                                                                                        prodding me from delicious slumber -                                                                                 and until I made my own coffee -                                                                                           the personal size mini press offering                                                                                        a helpful reminder that you’re not                                                                                  waiting with my cup at the top of the stairs

Tell me,                                                                                                                                       do your fingers hover over my icon                                                                                   when the steam from Sunday morning coffee                                                                              tickles your tongue?

Tell me,                                                                                                                                           is your heart just a little bit broken, too?