In the pale gray hours of the morning
when the sky is lightly dipped in ink
and I am fresh from dreaming,
I lie awake and search my ceiling
for the outline of your face.

I find it woven in my curtains
and etched into my door.
You are folded in my blankets
and gleaming in the weak sunlight through my window.

The words from nights before float between us
I remember you.