The young gnaw at doughy mornings as a zombie of night; no longer.
Pulling the dusty blinds' cord that isn't a string to the moon today.
Come back.

Organic eyes blast open from a free fall that is(was) dream.
No fireworks get to happen, and the rusting coffee isn't quite morning brown.
Alarm clocks remain the loneliest chunks of Earth.

I was seven when my dad taught me how to tie my shoes.
I was twenty when I called to remind him I tied them for the day.
Go.