(141) Faded

Morning hit, again, like always, but this time the breeze from my window to my side-turned cheek didn’t sting my eyes to filmy retreat.

Morning hit and that breeze glanced the half of my neck that turned and lilted towards the light; casually intimate across my suddenly reaching skin.

Morning hit with a burst of sameness, of smells like rich coffee and mulch draped dogs and homemade laundry detergent in the fibers of my blanket under my chin.

Morning hit with all the intentions that so easily filled my head with loathing. It traipsed through my slow blinking life and left oblivion drenched footprints in the soil of my need, my heart, that had waited for such release since mornings started hitting.

Morning hit, and I found I cared less; I could trot or skulk through my sun robed moments, and my gait would still be mine on the other end of my experience.

Morning hit like that and then

It took it all away; the sun and the breeze and my walk.

It was gone and I was left in memory

My hands wrapped around the infinite roiling ache of a care

I used to have.