Restlessness
Dawn rises. As warm as baking bread and as delicious as your honey skin.

The curtain flirts with the windowpane, flitting, fluttering, giggling.

The sky rumbles in the throats of a hundred thousand crows.

Sleep tosses and turns and rears its tousled head in expectance of you.

Things chitter and squeal in the fast-fleeing shadows, light chirps in answer.

Bedsheets, crumpled with dreams, frolick in the cold, unmade side of the bed.
Hollows await your warmth, wrinkles await your smoothing.

Sleep goes chasing dreams go chasing shadows go hunting for your fingertips.

Memories rise like puffs of soft dust, clouding over, exploding, imploding.

All the maps of skin and bone rewrite themselves.

Water rumbles through the pipeways and sloshes, sloshes, sloshes.

Giddy with frothing thoughts, the rumble becomes a slow murmur.

Day is beginning. Tinging the curtains blue.

I find myself resenting this intrusion. The night is so much better for conjuring you.

The night, with all its whispers and inkiness, is so much better for shaping your indefinite form.

I do not like sharing you with daylight.

I do not like sharing you with all that is woken up by the insistent dawn.

The taps are creaking and leaking. The morning is invading. And there are footsteps on the narrow, quiet stairway. Everything is intruding.

I close my eyes and disconnect the day. Night emerges and you are blood and flesh and fire again.

My mind wanders. Sometimes you are sea. Sometimes you are fine clay. Sometimes, rough bark. Sometimes, lithe sinew.

Sometimes, claw and tooth and nail. Sometimes, rage. Sometimes, tempest. Sometimes, still water.

You can be conjured in a thousand green dreams.
You can send oracles into ecstasies.
And soothsayers into blasphemies.
You are every conjurer's dream, every sorcerer's wildfire.

Because you are magic.
Raw, unharnessed, unparalleled magic.
Magic that won't let anyone tell it its name.