Untitled

we so attached to dawns. a sunrise. a piece of gold cresting the treetops and light through the naked branches. it's yours, it's mine, equally and alone. there's a feeling of opening your eyes. not wanting to be awake, but knowing the bed poses a bigger drag to the day then stepping out down the stairs into the crispy air. Dewey or dusty it still welcomes you and draws you in past the creaky bedframe and musty rooms. It's open here! with birds swooping and leaves scuffling and wind mumuring and its yours, if you want it.