The early sun’s rays
on the bedroom window
makes for the perfect
light box to trace from.
I can almost outline her.
The arms wrapping around
me in this bed.
Almost colour in
the golden hair
splayed across the pillows.
Almost detail her freckles.
Perhaps the blues, the greens,
the purples, and pinks
littered across her eyelids.
A mouth encrusted with opals,
inches from my own.
I could kiss her.
Almost.
But morning is a deceiver,
hiding empty space
behind kaleidoscope glass.
It leaves me eventually,
like she does on the Sunday train.
She was never supposed to
be mine in abstract.
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