This time of day offers
a hint of textured space
or perhaps the strong thought of you
gives this morning its soft feeling.

The odour of longing hangs in the air
that lulls me back to sleep…

It is as if the birds know of my lot;
condescending chirps from branches
just beyond my reach.

But this space is mine alone;
my solitary has claimed it,
set it aside for the mourning of your absence…

There is space only for your haunting
here amongst the cold grass blades…
not for the warm, flesh and blood, you…

I dance each morning with the ghost of you
and I twirl
-such rhythmic twirls-
in this space I call my own…