Morning

It’s 4 AM and the morning I taste is menthol cigarettes and your chapsticked lips warm against mine
The morning I feel is the rain in your hair and the way our bodies dovetailed under the streetlamp
The morning I hear is sighs of fears and finallys and the promise of no promises 
It’s 4 AM but the sunrise I see is eclipsed by the doubt in your eyes
And in all the quiet I can still hear the fear of a bad day in your “goodnight.”

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