The Morning Comes
The morning comes. Bright noontime passes through.
The twilight rinses air. One cycle of
These hours in their brightness, dimness, blue
Then yellow, scar-dimmed tones erases love,
Rubs out the lingering smells there in the sheets.
You came. You went. The sounds you made are gone.
They disappeared far faster than deceits
Of fragrances transpiring from the dawn.
No echoes of your gasps or grunts or sighs,
No resonances of your sloppy kiss
Rebound against the walls. Your final cries
And all these noises, your final hiss,
Became an off-white hush, vanished forthwith.
So much for lovers’ eternity myth.