some mornings

the rain falls gray on a backdrop of gray on city of gray in a morning of fog where the world is still sleeping in for lack of want to swim in the dingy gray

these moments make my heart seize up in my chest as her red lips are the only color i can recall as the rest of the colors swirl down into the overflowing gutters

the coffee sends steam into the cool air as the rain beads up on the glass, between sips i pick the drops out as they race down, hoping to pick a winner

chaos effect ruins any hope, they follow jagged paths like the forked tongues of lightning that occasionally flash above

it’s too damn dark to be so damn early, consumed by a lack of color, a lack of emotion, a lack of anything except dour disbelief and modest dejection

yet somewhere out there, i can see the pink tip of her tongue run along those lovely lips and it is impossible to not dream that they are pressed against mine

the feel of her tongue running on my lips to move like the raindrops down the glass door that leads into nothing but the whirling gray of my soul

some mornings are met with fire, with purpose, with need, while others are sidewalk chalk drawings swept away by the cold rains of indifferent storms raging behind hooded eyes

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