Poetry Writing

wasted daylight

Water color clouds bleed across
the azure page as your
thought inch up my spine
like ink.
The ghost of your fingertips
brush past my wrist,
down my palm,
nesting on my nail beds.
Do you remember?
Wasted days
sitting in twisted sheets,
sipping scalding coffee,
mussing my hair,
mapping your back
with eager hands
The daytime
sparks and scalds our skins.
so we stay in.
Huddled in each other,
until the moon called me home.
She wears your face now,
obscured by clouds,
she’s made brighter,
as you made me.
Irony, no?
Wasted time, enjoyed,
was not wasted.
I still waste daylight with
you by my side.
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