One day I'd like to trace the finery
Of your subconscious, in that dim light
When morning is half waving and prepared.
It'd be written on your face, your eyes
More like the weather than windows, like they say.
Cloudy with the potential for morning yawn showers
But, of course, always sunny, Even at this hour.
I'd follow your dreams, Id trace the markings of those maps
Made by pillow case creases, your cheekbone cartography.
I'd find the X and stamp it with a smile.