This morning your hair smells of jasmine
and the weave of your sweater is fixed with waxy stars.
Early you went out to prune the wild tendrils,
while drawn from sleep I turned to kiss your skin
but found you'd gone.

Then as you set the breakfast cups
I watched you from the bedroom door, yearning to entwine you
while your flowery scent still lingered.

This morning your hair smells of jasmine
and the weave of your sweater is fixed with glistening stars.