What are mornings if not meant for waking up to dreams that were a momentary certainty, an occurrence of the most delicious reality, and you wallowed in them like an eager fish finding new waters.
To wake up with not a drop of sunlight, the grey skies marred by aching clouds merging into the gloom to make them one of their own so as not to feel upset over the dullness of their lives again, letting pass a scathing wind of bizarre chilliness with sharp points making for tender warms places on your neck that were left burning with paints of hot longing, scrawled with erogenous scriptures of a new world that was discovered through finger tips and tongues in muted darkness that combusted with broken breaths.
Mornings in their foul humour in cahoots with dreams with their twisted sense of comic bringing forth to mind every detail that had stayed in recesses of creased sheets, bubbling into the iris to mock and play.
Dreams that stayed stranded amidst eyelashes as the new day let itself be known and the head struggled to become one with mundane bitterness of reality, jagged by sweetness that is another realm still clasped under a strand of lash.
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