I suppose I wouldn't mind waking up to turquoise skies
painted outside the window
When I'm dreaming of you,
I sing to the mirror like I am serenading a paramour
but it is nonchalant, almost fearless,
with my voice still in a tumble of organs and sleepy phlegm,
finding its way out
My fingers turn the faucet on, and the sink streams water out with the slight whistle of the pipes in the background
It's the beginnings of morning,
in the sequence that those prime-coloured skies ensure

-cj