It's true
The morning is so soft,
Like the prickles of grass
Smashed
Upon
The small of your back
In the summer.
And the light is so pale
That it echoes
Across the
Sheer carpet
The color of cream
The clock ticks,
The sound
Ever so sparse.
The rustle
Of a slight breeze
Kissing
The lilac bushes.
A slurp erupts
From the base of my pink
Small lips,
The steam from my pure coffee
Protruding like halos
Upon the top
Of my unbrushed head.
And still,
The morning is soft,
And the quiet is shocking
And nothing
Can quiet
My quiet
Like the morning
As the clock chimes