Mornings

I want to break your heart.

I reach out to grasp the golden arc of sun as it lights on my hair, the glow effusive, effortless. It’s like 4700 tiny fairies are blessing the air with kisses, the evening dappled. I smile gently to myself, hold this light in my eyes and my heart.

But it reminds me of the beauty I sleep through each day. The new buds on a maple, silhouetted against a cornflower sky. The angle of three buildings close together, a honeycomb confection of concrete, brick and glass, it’s angles calling to me each morning, seductive in the dew-lit light. The tired face of 8.5 months pregnant, shirt taut, eyes grim, but oh! the life bursting forth, the change, the absolute drive thru wreck of chaos approaching that she, standing tired against the coffee shop wall, needing to pee again, cannot see!

The simply wrenching beauty of the creature she will soon be.

I want all of it-I want to absorb into me the sweet new wind that blows the dust from the road. I want to inhale the flowery scent of all the fleshy women I pass. I wish I could touch the sandpaper face of the man who smokes one cigarette each morning, coffee in hand, ash pointedly away from his suited small body. I want to tell him my secrets, instead of darting past, pretending oblivion.

If there was a thread, and the street before me carpet, we’d all know our secrets together. Ash into the wind, temper soothed by corners, love bred in shadow.

I could break your heart with the love I feel for strangers, the ache I hold close to my chest each day as the ground crawls greener towards me. I could shatter glass with the singleness of mind I groom as I stare in the mirrors, growing eager and firmer each day.

Maybe I’ll reach out and pull her through to meet you. She’s blinding.

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